When You Fall, Fall Properly

"And that was the last time I saw her,
The girl on the Netherly bus."
The poet closed his notepad and lowered his head like a priest leading prayers at a funeral for his own soul. Midge watched him for a moment as he basked in the polite applause of the coffee shop patrons, but she didn't join in. She pegged him to be a mid-thirties office drone, stuck in a job that killed him a little more every day, squandering a talent that never really got off the starting blocks and letting his dreams out once a week in the complimentary soft focus light of an open mic night. It seemed rude not to applaud his efforts, but encouraging him would be even worse.
The applause petered out and he left the stage quickly, his seat taken almost immediately by a Joni - Long blonde hair, floor length skirt, peasant blouse and an acoustic guitar - who launched into Big Yellow Taxi without a hint of irony. Midge shook her head sadly and turned away from the stage as Ari returned to the table.
"One grande skinny mocha latte with a shot of caramel, whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles pour moi, et pour madame, one straight black coffee."
Midge nodded her thanks, took the tiny white cup and sipped carefully at the scalding black liquid. Ari stirred three sachets of brown sugar into her own drink and ran her tongue along the length of the wooden stirrer, her eyes fixed on Midge's. She didn't get the response she was hoping for and sighed, then pointed the cleaned stick at the stage.
"Wailing witch alert."
Midge nodded, smiling in spite of herself.
"Open mic bingo; one fat stand up ripping off old Bill Hicks routines and we've got a full house."
Ari laughed, tossing her long red hair. To someone who didn't really know her it would sound warm and genuine.
"You're nervous," Midge said.
Ari shrugged.
"It's been a while."
"That wasn't down to me."
Ari's face darkened but she held her temper and took a deep drink from her cup. She tipped it up just a little further than was necessary, gave herself a thick whipped cream moustache and grinned broadly at Midge.
"Still friends?"
Midge nodded, unsmiling.
"To the end. Is that why you wanted to see me?"
Ari lowered her gaze, wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and took another, tidier sip of her coffee.
"Do you want a muffin or something?"
"Ari..."
The Joni finished her song but the scattered applause did little to cover the uncomfortable silence between them. As she launched into a passable rendition of One Day Like This, Midge drained her coffee and reached for her bag.
"Don't go."
Midge paused, surprised by the note of desperation.
"Give me a reason to stay."
Ari's eyes brimmed with tears but she wiped them away with her fingertips and composed herself.
"It used to be enough that I'd ask."
Midge had to fight the urge to sweep her into her arms and make it all better, but in the end she went too far in the opposite direction.
"You were one of us then."
Ari laughed, tossing her long red hair, but no-one would mistake it for happiness.
"I was never one of you. Not really."
Midge frowned.
"What the hell does that mean? We did everything together. You lived at the house. We fought side by side then went home and slept in the same bed. How could we be any more of a team than that?"
Ari lifted her bag onto the table and pulled out a tattered paperback book.
"It's more than just acting like the rest of you. Do you remember this?"
She pushed the book across the table. Midge glanced down at the garish cover with its barely legal depiction of Minnie, Mickey, Adolf and Eva.
"Sure. Going Underground. I found it for you in Portmeirion after the thing with the Magister Templi. What happened to it."
"It got trashed when the orb went wild round the house. The last time. Remember?"
Midge blushed, looked away.
"I remember what we did afterwards... But I still don't see what that has to do with anything."
Ari turned the book over. The spine had been torn in two, so that half of the book was missing.
"Today, Artie Love is almost completely forgotten," she read, "a footnote in the brief history of English underground comics, but his greatest creation..."
She waved her hand in the air, indicating the missing words which floated out there somewhere, waiting to be captured and pinned to the page.
"That's all there is. I searched everywhere for the rest of that book. I even tried to find another copy but it's like it doesn't even exist. There's no record of the author or half the people he interviewed."
"So it came through a lesion. So what? None of us have histories here."
Ari pulled the rest of the book out of her bag and laid it on the table, her hand covering the next page so that Midge couldn't read it.
"How many times have you seen Fliss die?"
Midge shook her head as if brushing away an annoying fly.
"What?"
"And how often has Monk OD'd on some god-awful concoction of smack and jellyfish brains and who knows what else?"
"Don't-"
"You died in my arms Midge. You bled out while I held you in a stinking cellar in Prague. I had to close your eyes and leave you in the water and go home and burn my fucking clothes because they were that stiff with your blood that they would never come clean."
Her voice was rising and a couple of people at nearby tables began to watch in the hopes of a full scale meltdown, but Midge just laughed. For the first time since Ari's call she felt relaxed and in control once more.
"Is that it? You're worried about us getting hurt? Oh, you poor, sweet baby!"
She reached out and laid her hand over Ari's, turning it over to entwine her fingers. For a moment she felt the old tingle in her fingertips, the static charge that always seemed to flicker between them.
"We can't really die baby. We're not here. The silver star - "
Ari gripped her fingers tightly and turned her hand over. Midge's words died on her lips as she saw the long, puckered scar which ran the length of Ari's forearm.
"How...?"
"If I ask you, will you come with me? Leave this behind, start over in the real world?"
"Ari, I can't - "
"You mean you won't. Course you can leave. Just get up and walk. Say the word and you'll be free. Well?"
Midge looked at her across the table, remembering a time when they were closer than any two people can get, tears blurring the woman across the table into the girl she had once loved.
"I can't."
Ari nodded, released her hand and began to pull away, then paused with her fingers still covering the page.
"I didn't understand when he brought me the rest of the book. I didn't understand why it was him, or what the book meant. Now I do. Look."
Midge frowned, looking down at the book. Ari pulled her hand away with a flourish and read the remainder of the line aloud.
"Arihaily Ilya lives on."
Midge stared at the page, the words swimming before her like inky fish. She took a moment to digest their meaning, then looked up at the stranger sitting opposite as she covered the book once more.
Ari fired once, the bullet tearing straight through Midge's left eye. As the impact rocked her in her chair, she coughed up a sudden gout of blood that splashed across the back of Ari's hand, staining the pages between her fingers, leaving a perfect hand print of text and yellowed paper..
The Joni screamed and dropped her guitar as the other patrons struggled to back away, turning over tables and chairs in their terror. Ari stood and fired three shots into the wall behind the singer, barely even glancing at her.
"Sit. Down."
The screaming faltered and died, leaving the sound of a barista hiding behind the coat rack whispering frantic directions to the emergency services operator. Ari swung the gun around and fired another shot into the mass of coats and scarves.
"Now!"
The barista stepped out, holding his phone up in his hand, then sat heavily on the floor.
Moving quickly now, Ari stepped around the table, placed her hand against Midge's soft neck and felt the warmth ebb away. She closed her eyes, blinking away a rogue tear, then looked up at the ceiling. As the final laboured pulse faded beneath her tender fingers, the smell of violets filled the room and a soft glow began to shine from every surface. Somewhere a choir began to sing, a song she recognised but could never quite recall. She fought the urge to fall to her knees and bow her head, to show obeisance and piety.
She raised the gun above her head, her arm shaking. The pressure behind her eyeballs grew until she had to cry out, but she gripped Midge's shoulder to steady herself and kept the gun trained on the spot directly above the corpse. The music became louder, shaking the room, rattling cups and glasses and sending them to shatter on the floor. The other customers began to moan in fear and awe as the light became blinding and cold as ice. Ari barely noticed as she turned to one side and vomited.
The gun in her hand felt like an anvil, Thor's hammer raised to the heavens. As the pure white light enveloped her the gun grew cold enough to burn the flesh from her palm. A thin skein of ice formed across her fist and down her arm, her breath clouding in the air before her. The choir became a shriek of feedback, a loop of distortion and glory that blew out the windows and began to peel back the roof like a sardine can. The light rained down like shards of frozen fire, pushing the coffee shop patrons to crawl in the debris like worms, barely able to breathe beneath its crushing weight. Only Ari remained standing, arm outstretched, leaning on her dead lover for support.
As the room shook like a miscued filmstrip,
As the singing reached its crescendo,
As the world opened up like a flower,
As the silver star descended,
As her lover's eyes fluttered open,
She fired a single bullet into god's heart and plunged them all back into darkness.
Midge slumped forwards and began to bleed across the cracked tabletop.
The Joni wept uncontrollably on the floor of the stage.
The barista huddled in the corner with his hands pressed to his eyes.
The poet clutched his broken spectacles and began to crawl towards the door.
Ari wondered if her hearing would ever return, flicked open her mobile and hit send on the message saved in her drafts box.
And somewhere in the darkness on the other side of the world, Elliott opened his mobile, read Ari's message and smiled.
"It's started."

Sweet and Fitting

The sacrificial trail begins,

The lists and scrolls adorned with names and monikers.

Bodies huddle together, naked.

Hands held open.

Mothers, fathers, brothers, daughters. The family eternal.

The heavens open engulfing the waiting party in acid rain,

Eating and biting into their exposed flesh.

Huge globs of tissue and fat splash onto the white tiles - sputtering, popping, fizzing.

The concrete stare of the sentries.

The sulphur stench of disembowelment.

The rotting, farting grotesquery’s of the death factory.

The seeping wounds of the sewer.

A convoy of flesh.

Bodies thrown into the salivating pit.

Bleeding hands dig into the expectant earth.

A complex network of ditches and bonfires protrude.

The fuel of humanity poured into the darkness,

Burned in the inferno and emitted into the hollow skies in ashen billows.

And then he takes us in his nihilistic grip and pisses into the flames,

The Steam rising, crystallizing in the icy atmosphere.

And she finally proclaims:

“Oh brother, seek me and ye shall reclaim the spent soil and we will feed these bonfires no more.”

Everything is True and Nothing is Permitted

HELMAND PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN June 15th 2006

The pilot informed us over the intercom system that Air Traffic still refused clearance for take off. Apparently, some big wig US Senator was over to gee up the troops with home-grown moralistic bullshit. We had to wait for his DC-10 to fuel up before we could even contemplate getting out of this shit hole. At least the three hour wait had given me chance to muse over the Intel Report that the MI5 advisor had given me.

This takes us back a few days, to another land, another frontier on the faux crusade for global democracy.

BASRA, IRAQ June 8th 2006

This guy was stronger than all of the others. It wasn’t until we ripped off his toe nails that he started to cry like a baby. He coughed and spluttered his confession to the translator who, in turn, gave me what I had wanted to hear; the whereabouts of the insurgents that had killed four of our boys at a roadside checkpoint. I informed the translator to thank the man and gestured to the Iraqi Service Agent to pull the rest of the remaining toe nails. They had to learn that us Westerners were not to be fucked with. I stepped outside as the tearing sound of nail parting flesh reverberated around the court yard. A gentleman in a lightweight business suit leaned against the outer doorway. “What a lovely sound.” he said as he handed me a manila envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“There’s an itch that they want scratching.”
I handed him the envelope back. “Tell them to ask somebody else, I’m busy here.”
“I don’t think you understand, we need someone trained in the darker arts. She has been sighted in Afghanistan. We want you to bring her to us.” Sweat started to bead down his forehead, the MI5 laky was nervous. I snatched the envelope back out of his trembling hands and gripped his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me this from the start? Is Blue with her?”
“We believe so. We have picked nothing up via the usual channels; NSA, GCHQ have drawn blanks. However, a Medic from the US Rangers made contact with them in Helmand. We’ve also had sightings on the Pakistani border.”
“What about remote viewing via PSYOPS?”
“We’ve tried that. Yet again, nothing from our friends across the pond.” He raised his eyebrows at me and plucked a cigarette from his shirt pocket.
“OK, I’ll need the Chaos Unit ready within 24hrs. Inform their Magister Templi that we need members with experience of the Abyss. She’s adept at dimensional intersectioneering. So, we need our best practitioners.” I looked down at the manila envelope. “Everything I need in here?” “Yes.” He replied
“Excellent. I’ll serve this bitch up on a silver platter.” I gave the MI5 advisor a toothy grin.
“That’s what we were hoping.” He concluded by shaking my hand and wishing me luck. Not that I needed it. I’d never failed before, why would I now?


HELMAND PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN June 15th 2006

And back to today. The pilot has just informed us that we are clear for take off. I take a sip from my rum and coke and turn to my travelling companion. “The adventures just about to begin Elliot, excited?” I ask
“Fucking ecstatic Mr K.” He replies as the pilot pushes the throttle and the plane lurches forward and arcs up into the afternoon sky.

This Is How It Feels - An Investigation

"Hello and welcome to a Granada Upfront special. I'm Anthony H. Wilson -"
"- and I'm Lucy Meacock -"
"-and tonight, as police search for missing schoolgirl Marg Cornell and parents mark the twenty fifth anniversary of the Moors Murders, we ask, why does the Northwest have the highest rate of juvenile disappearances in the country?"
Sciliton leaned over and silenced the TV; It was bad enough spending all day mired in the case without having to hear Tony fucking Wilson waffle on about it all night a well. As if chucking enough of his fifty pence words at the subject would solve anything; By that logic, they'd do best to ask Stanley Unwin for his searing insight - At least he was a fully accredited Professor...
He picked up one of the manilla folders which littered the coffee table and began to leaf idly through the contents, the illusion of work temporarily distracting him from the fact that the case was going nowhere. Four weeks since anyone had seen Marg, and they were no closer to finding her than they had been on day one. Worse, every possible avenue that had been open back then had gradually closed off. Sightings in Liverpool and Manchester had turned out to be mistakes, the last two people known to have spoken to her could barely even agree on what she'd been wearing and her mother had proven to be a complete basket case. The TV appeal had been a fiasco, the brass were talking about bringing in some outside firm who were supposed to have "specialist expertise in these matters," whatever that meant, and now half a dozen semi-drunks were discussing his failings with a glorified weather girl and a pretentious night-club owner. Even Roger Cook was sniffing around the story, for fuck's sake!
He threw the folder back onto the table along with the flyers, photos, statements and other assorted ephemera, the crap and detritus thrown up in the wake of his trawl through Marg's brief fifteen years on Earth. All the love notes and doodles retrieved from her bedroom, the letters sent to the station by every fruitcake and Dennis Nilsen wannabe claiming some connection to the case, even the letters page from the local rag the week after the story broke; More than one killer had been caught out that way, bragging about their acts in some coded diatribe about dog-befouled pathways or the municipal parks system, but they'd run the selection in The World through the kind of codebreakers that made the Enigma machine look like a prehistoric calculator and come up with nothing. They had gathered every shred of information about Marg's life, the least little scrap of so-called evidence, and so far all it proved was that, yes, she had definitely existed once, but only up till August 7th. Nothing after that could be proven one way or the other. Like Schrodinger's cat, she was in an indeterminate state, hovering somewhere between living and dead, waiting for the active participation of a viewer to release her, either way.
Sciliton removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes, frowning. He could always tell when he was too tired; He started to think about missing persons cases in terms of subatomic physics. Always a bad sign. He drained the dregs of his cold coffee cup, then headed into the bathroom to piss it straight back out again. His back ached, his legs throbbed from sitting in the same position for so long, his left foot had gone to sleep and his right arm felt numb, dead. When he switched on the bathroom strip light, the flickering tube hurt his eyes, the buzz set his teeth on edge and the overall impression of a gigantic bug zapper made him think of Gregor Samsa. Maybe this was a sign that they should start searching roach motels and flypaper strips for tiny, transmogrified iterations of Marg.
"Maybe I've just watched too much Twin Peaks." he suggested to his reflection in the mirror.
Looking back at him, Sciliton2 felt the same shock and revulsion he always experienced when faced with his physical form. Locked away behind his eyes, he always held an idealised version of his body in his mind, a barely glimpsed mixture of his teenage self, Bryan Ferry and Robert Redford; Smart, smooth, handsome and sexy, with that lithe, sinewy grace of a young athlete or a male ballet dancer with a well packed pouch. It always surprised him to be reminded of the truth of the matter; Leaning on the sink, staring back at him, was an average fourty-four year old man. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Total it all up and you would probably find more debits than credits. A couple of teeth that had been knocked out when he was on the beat, the replacements standing out a little more with every day as they yellowed at a slower rate than his own. His hair was greying at the sides and thinning on top and the longer he left it between haircuts, the worse both problems seemed, although that didn't prevent him from growing it as long as regs allowed. It didn't do him any favours, but his wife and a couple of girlfriends had commented on how well he suited long hair, so he tended to keep it that way even now, when his only regular female encounter was with the canteen lady who had spent five years trying to get his toast the way he liked it. She probably never would, so the chances of intimacy were somewhere south of none. Moving on, he came to the windows of his soul, which were a little bit squinty and bloodshot thanks to too many nights spent poring over files in the light of a single desk lamp in the sad hope that it would impart a little Chandleresque glamour to his sleuthing. His skin was losing its tautness, his pores were large and open, sharing the space on his cheeks, chin and forehead with the residual scarring of mild acne which suggested that his idealised teenage self had never been all that perfect to begin with. The whole smile/hair/eye/skin ensemble was perched precariously on the sort of body which spent most of its time sitting in one uncomfortable chair after another, with short spells in a car or a bed to break the monotony. Doughy flesh, wispy hairs clustered around his groin and armpits and nipples, flat feet from his street years and a burgeoning gut from the desk jobs which followed them. A couple of scars obtained in the line of duty, nothing really exciting or life threatening, just puckered purple reminders of how easy it is to open up a human form and let the inside out. Overall, nothing too bad, certainly nothing that couldn't be disguised by a well tailored suit, but his Man At C&A two piece wasn't quite up to the task,especially as he tended to wear each one untill the knees and elbows were shiny and almost worn through.
"What are you looking at?" Sciliton asked his reflection.
Sciliton2 remained silent, wondering the same thing. The answer came back again; A man. No more, no less. A tired man, frightened of failure, who knew that his motives were more about him than the little girl he was looking for. Still, finding Marg would be a concrete action, and surely they were worth more than any number of unspoken terrors and selfish drives.
"You might think that," offered Sciliton3 from somewhere around the Ajna Chakra, interrupting the unspoken dialogue between body and soul, "but I know what this is really all about. It's got nothing to do with pride in your work or doing your duty as a decent copper; Somewhere deep down inside here, you think that if you find her, she'll fall into your arms like a classic damsel in distress. You'll be the great conquering hero, come to rescue her from the darkness, all strength and virility. And even if she doesn't, other women will believe it, for a while at least. You're a little boy playing at Prince Charming, looking for praise and recognition. You want all the women to throw themselves at you, to cover you in glory, and the saddest fact is that if anyone comes anywhere near, you'll sabotage your chances before they even get a chance to say hello. And you know why, don't you?"
Sciliton gripped the sink tightly, staring back into the abyss. He knew the answer, and as Sciliton4 began to call for his mummy in his high, singsong voice, he closed his eyes and ground his teeth, fighting to regain temporary control of his heart and mind and inner child. These were the worst times, when he threatened to splinter into his component parts and run away from himself. Working by touch alone, he opened the bathroom cabinet and fumbled out a well-worn pill case, popped the lid and downed two of the tiny yellow tablets dry before he dared open his eyes again. When he did, he placed the pill case back on the shelf, closed the cabinet and stared at his silent, obedient reflection.
"I'm a policeman," he announced, confidently, expecting and receiving no challenge. "I'm not in bad shape, I take care of myself and I do a good job of anything I put my mind to. I'm not bad looking, just a little tired, and it's what's inside that counts anyway. I just haven't found what I'm looking for, that's all."
He waited a moment longer to be sure that every aspect of his self was in agreement, or at least in no mood to argue, then switched off the light and drifted back out into the lounge. The scattered files no longer bothered him and neither did the failure they represented. What did get to him was the silence, and he turned the TV back up to drown it out with the comforting noise of people who knew even less than he did. He dropped onto the sofa, put his feet up on the coffee table and settled down to ride out the rest of the evening as the talk show came to an inconclusive conclusion.
"So there you have it. As the poet Bob Dylan once said, your sons and your daughters are beyond your command, and as Anthony H. Wilson once said, this one could run and run but sadly, that's all we've got time for tonight. Say goodnight Lucy."
"Goodnight Tony."
"Goodnight."