Dead Souls

"In a thousand years time, the remnants of the human race will flutter their gills, flap their flippers and declare this a pivotal moment in the decline and fall of global civilisation. I'm John Peel, he's Kid Jensen and this is Joy Division."
Mark looked up from his second bowl of Sugar Puffs as the camera rose above the crowd and the guitars crashed in. The band on stage looked like they really weren't happy to be there and the singer danced like a spaz, but the man with the guitar down at his knees looked cool. Mark watched them closely until the song ended, his spoon held forgotten in his hand, dripping milk onto his Superman pyjamas.
The rest of the program was pretty dull, but Mark knew that everyone would be talking about it in the playground in the morning so he did his best to memorise the order of the top ten. His mum hadn't gone out the week before and he'd spent the night in his room, and even though he'd listened to the new Top 40 on the previous Sunday, he'd felt left out of all the conversations. In the end he'd wound up talking to some of the younger kids and pretending he'd watched it.
Bucks Fizz were still number one and he waited to see if the girls ripped their skirts off again but it wasn't as exciting now that he knew it was coming, and you couldn't see anything anyway. He thought about playing with himself but Mel was asleep on the sofa and he didn't want to wake her in case she started crying again.
To be honest, he still wasn't sure if he was doing it right anyway. The older lads talked about it a lot but he couldn't just come right out and ask how to do it so he had to act like he knew what they meant, laugh along at their jokes and hope to pick up enough clues to work it out. Thinking about it was giving him a bonkon and Mel was all snuggled up with her teddy bear blanket, but he didn't want to risk it.
Instead, he got up, turned the telly off and switched on the radio. The newsreader was talking about the Russians again and he quickly silenced the volume. The news used to bore him, ten minutes of talking and no music, but now it terrified him. His mum made him show off to her friends by reading the newspaper out loud, and he liked it when their kids tried it and got all tangled up on the words, even though most of them were older than him. It made him feel good when his mum was proud of him, but even though he could read the words some of the stories made no sense. He'd asked his mum what they meant, why they would only get a four minute warning if the war started, and his mum had explained that if they had a war then there wouldn't be anywhere safe to run to so there was no point having any more time. He could still see the picture she'd drawn in the back of his maths book, a circle of shapeless blobs that he knew were the wrong shape for the countries they were meant to be and a mass of arrows criss-crossing from one country to the next. The 4 minute warning wasn't enough time to run away, she explained, but it was more than enough time for each country to launch their own missiles, so that if they had to die then they'd kill everyone else too. His mum said it was called M.A.D. and Mark agreed.
Ever since then, he'd had nightmares about nuclear war. He didn't actually know what the warning signal would sound like, so he lay awake at night, listening for it and panicking at every unexpected noise. He'd even been sent home from school because of his terror when the chemical factory down the road tested a new safety warning siren. While the rest of the class had carried on reciting their eight times table, Mark had started screaming and ran straight for the door. They brought him down in the playground and dragged him back inside, kicking and sobbing uncontrollably. It was only when he felt that a long enough time had passed that he finally calmed down a little and told them what was wrong. The teachers couldn't find his mum, thankfully, so they called his nan in and he went to her house for the night. Things always felt better when he was with his nan, but he knew that he would already be in enough trouble when his mum came home, so he didn't tell her or anyone that it was more than just the siren which had frightened him. Explaining M.A.D., his mum had told him that the aftermath of a nuclear war would be so bad that she wouldn't even wait for the bombs to fall. As soon as they gave the warning, she would kill Mel, Mark and herself so that none of them would have to suffer. When the siren sounded at school, he knew that if he didn't get home straight away then he would be left to die all alone.
But even that wasn't the worst outcome he could imagine. Far worse was the possibility that they would start the war while his mum was out at the bingo or the club and he was looking after Mel. Then it would be his job to look after her, the way he had to wash her hand and face and get her into her cot. He would have to make sure that she didn't suffer, but he really wasn't sure that he could do it; she cried enough when she bumped her head on the table. Like his mum said though, he was the man of the house now so he would have to start acting like it. He would have to find a way. He looked over at the still shape lying quietly on the sofa and made a silent promise to take care of her, whatever happened.
Shaking himself from his daydream, he pulled open the drawer in the living room cabinet and rummaged through the box of cassette tapes it held, a collection he had built up week by week, sitting poised with his fingers ready to press play and record when the DJ announced a song that he liked. More often than not he was too slow or they talked over the start, but the tapes still held enough of each song to be worth keeping. He slipped one of his current favourites into the Hi-Fi and pressed it into place with a satisfying ka-chik. He pressed play, ready for the grinding of gears which said that the ancient Grundig stereo had chewed another tape. The machine just hissed softly as the tape spooled across the heads, so he switched to playback mode and slowly increased the volume to just below the point where it was likely to wake Mel. She didn't even stir as The Jam began to play "Going Underground" and he boogied back over to the sofa, sat down on the floor with his back to his sister and reached for his school bag.
Pulling out a couple of exercise books, he briefly considered starting on his homework, then thought better of it, tossed them aside and pulled out his latest reading book. It was a risky decision though. If his mum came home alone she would go through his school books again, skimming through the pages and looking for the tell tale red ink and demanding an explanation for every "See me." Getting the homework done could save him from another night of screaming and slapping, or even worse, the cold fury with which she told him that he was wasting his potential and just just like his father. But she'd gone out with her hair done up and her new leather skirt on so it looked like she was going straight to the club after the bingo. That gave him an extra couple of hours, and The Borribles was far more exciting than fractions and the industrial revolution.
Later, as the C-90 ran out cutting Visage off mid song, Mark was no closer to doing his homework, and not that much closer to the end of The Borribles either. Instead he lay curled up on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, the book still held loosely in his unconscious grip. He twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly, as his dreams shook once more to the sound of sirens.
This time he dreamt that he was alone in the park. It was night time and the street lamps glittered in the distance, promising warmth and the safety of companions. But between him and them lay the vast black expanse of empty, muddy playing fields, the skeletal remains of the shattered bandstand and the rusty, spiked steel fence which ringed the entire park. In broad daylight it would take him ten minutes to get from one end of the park to the other; there was clearly no way that he could make it home in less than four minutes in the pitch darkness. But as the banshee wail of the siren echoed around the bare trees, he began to run.
His heart pounding in his chest, muscles burning and tearing, stumbling on broken brickwork and sliding in the mud, he ran through the darkness. The sirens grew louder and more insistent, drowning out his pained breaths and anguished sobs.
Then it was silent.
The bomb hung in the air above him, frozen in the instant of explosion like a great silver star. It lit the world like a million flashbulbs and Mark saw a thousand frightened children caught in the glare, running through the park in every direction. As one being, they turned their tear-streaked faces to the new born sun and bathed in its cold radiance.
Instantly, every child became a cloud of drifting ash. In the midst of this swirling maelstrom, Mark knew that he was alone. Standing directly beneath the epicentre of the spreading blast wave, he understood that every speck of ash was another dead child, a floating ghost. Mel, his nan, his mum and every man she ever brought home. All gone. All dead. He had been left behind.
Now that it had happened, it no longer scared him. The light from the star reached every horizon, burning trees and cars and schools to soft swirling ash. The air around him was thick with ghosts and he felt them pressing against him, trying to share a little of his life. The dust cloud rippled as another shade drew near. The clear light and the thick clouds left Mark as blind as the complete darkness of a moment before, but there was a warmth and a sense of recognition to this latest ghost. He raised his arms toward sit and felt it enveloping him, lifting him from his feet and cradling him in its phantom arms.
"Nan?"
The ghost pressed him tighter, every fragment of its being suffused with love. Mark was alone in all the world and he would never be alone again. The world had ended and everything was perfect.
He woke to the sound of screaming, raising his head from the carpet just in time to see his mother's foot swinging towards him. He had no time to avoid it and the kick connected with his head. Everything went white and he raised his hands to cover his face, wet with blood and the first startled tears. Between his shaking fingers he saw his mum standing over him, clutching Mel to her chest. Her hair was a tangled mess and her makeup was smeared and streaked by recent tears but her eyes were dry and blazed with fury. Mel hung limp in her arms, the angry red V where her head had hit the table looking huge and angry against her too-pale skin. The teddy bear blanket had slipped from her tiny fingers and lay on the floor beside him. He lowered his guard to lift it towards her, thinking it would make everything better. His mum snatched it away, planted her foot against his chest and slammed him back against the sofa. As he fought for breath she knelt across his legs, pinning him down without even noticing. She screamed at him, her face inches from his, her breath hot with stale beer, cigarettes and panic.
"What did you do Mark? What did you do to your fucking sister?"

Notes

Another Girl

Sitting on a bench in the shadow of the war memorial, Sarah pulled her mac tight against the early evening breeze and lit another cigarette. She had been waiting half an hour now, and there was still no sign of Bill. She thought about giving up and going home, but the idea of one more night in her room playing her 45s so quietly that her father wouldn't get annoyed seemed worse than being stood up. At least on Fridays he went to the Legion so she could increase the volume enough to hear the words.
But this was a dreary Tuesday night, and her father would be sitting up at the kitchen table like always, listening to the World Service news and rolling his cigarettes one after another, lining them up like little soldiers, a regiment to be consigned to the flames at five minute intervals. So she sat out by the cenotaph, smoking her own shop-bought fags and waiting for Bill.
What made it worse was the fact that she didn't even know where he was taking her; If she had, she could have gone there and waited for him. She checked her watch and mentally crossed off another activity from the list of possibilities. Half past seven - Too late for the main feature at The Imperial. That left the danceclub or the coffee bar at the church hall. The excitement was positively underwhelming. Not for the first time, she wondered if she really belonged with Bill. They had been together for so long now that it just seemed like a habit instead of a relationship. She knew that the films weren't real; She was no Doris Day, and Bill wouldn't pass for Rock Hudson even at a distance in the dead of night, but shouldn't there be more than this? Wasn't there a world where people lived real lives, full of excitement and passion, aspiring to something more than a job at the plant? Sometimes, she could almost feel it, reaching out to her, drawing her to the gateway. Every Saturday, when she got paid and the plant let out at lunchtime, she would head straight to Woollies and then rush home with three or four fragile plastic discs under her coat, hidden away from her father who would want to double her keep if he found out how much of her wages went on records. Smuggling the precious 45s and long players up to her room, she would pull the tiny record player out from beneath her bed, feeling the static tingle in her fingers as she opened the lurid red leatherette case. It was the greatest sadness of her life that she had to wait a whole six days before she could move the volume dial up beyond two, but even so, she would drop the needle into the groove and roll onto her back, lying with her head next to the speaker, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling as she strained to listen to the latest tune. Sometimes, if it was an LP, she would gaze at the cover and imagine the faces smiling at her, singing the songs just for her. She read the song titles over and over, reciting them like magic words; Help, The Night Before, You've Got To Hide Your Love Away... They were more than songs, more than words; They were a key to another place.
"Penny for 'em?"
Sarah jumped, startled out of her thoughts by the voice behind her. She craned her neck to see who it was and groaned inwardly when she recognised the intruder.
"Hello Cynthia."
Cynthia Wilson smiled and tottered around to join her on the bench, dropping heavily beside her and letting out a belch and a drunken giggle.
"Whoops a daisie. Y'alright duck? You were well away then. Your fag's burnt down to the cork. Got another?"
Sarah looked at the filter which she still held, forgotten, then tossed it into the gutter and took out a new pack. Cynthia watched with great interest as she lit one, then beamed at her as she passed the pack across.
"Ta love. So what were you thinking about then? Must have been good - I shouted you from across the road and you didn't budge."
"I'm not sure. Just daydreaming about music."
She shrugged, then held out a hand for her cigarettes, which Cynthia was about to slip into her handbag. Cyn smiled and handed them over with a sheepish grin..
"Sorry, forget my head next. You really like that stuff don't you? I don't know how you tell them apart. That Freddy and the Peacemakers fella looks just like Buddy Holly to me."
Sarah winced at the mistake, but she knew there was no point correcting her; Cyn had always been the same, ever since they had been in infants school together. She wasn't stupid, just scatterbrained, far more interested in her own happiness than anything else going on around her. They had been the best of friends up until Sarah got into the Grammar School and Cyn didn't, and they had gradually drifted into different worlds in the six years since. Sarah occasionally saw her about town, usually from a distance, and she sometimes wondered if their paths would have continued along similar lines if she hadn't done so well on her eleven plus. Seeing the stain on Cynthia's blouse, the clumsily re-applied lipstick and the cigarette burn on her far too short skirt, she gave silent thanks that she had done so well.
Cynthia waved a hand in front of her face.
"You're off again!"
"Sorry. I'm just really tired. I was up half the night listening to the new Beatles LP."
"Now there's a bloke I could go for, that John Lemon. I know a girl who worked in the Cavern for a while and she says she went into the dressing room by mistake one night while he was in there. The sort of mistake any woman would make if she had the chance, right? Apparently, he's got the biggest John Thomas you've ever seen!"
Sarah turned crimson at the thought of her greatest idol in the altogether. She wasn't the sort of girl Cyn had turned out to be, but it wasn't exactly the first time she had pictured it.
"Oh my God! What did she do?"
Cynthia leered.
"She didn't do anything, but he turned round to her and said, have yer come to change the barrel, or d'yer just want a look at the pump?"
The two girls erupted into gales of laughter, and for a moment or two, they were almost best friends again. Then Cynthia straightened up and smoothed out her blouse, ran her fingers through her peroxide-brittle hair and sighed, looking up at the cenotaph standing stark against the darkening sky.
"It's a shame, what happened. People just change. They leave, move away, start new lives, you know?"
Sarah nodded soberly, thinking of how true that was, how one test result had dictated the course of their lives. She naturally assumed that Cyn was talking about them.
"That doesn't have to be the end of things though, does it?" she asked.
"No, but you wind up on different sides of the world, it gets harder and harder to get in touch, to apologise. You live your life, seeing where it's all going wrong, seeing what your old friends are up to, and you can't get it back on track. You can't get back to where you used to be. And then one day, on your own doorstep, it ends. No more second chances."
She smiled ruefully, took a final drag on her cigarette, then held it up to watch the line of orange burn down to the filter.
"I know what people think of me. What you think of me."
Sarah started to protest, but Cynthia shushed her with a wave of her hand and carried on.
"Don't pretend that you don't; I know you too well for that. You pity me, and you wonder how I could have wound up like this. You wonder what it would take to put you in my place, and it scares you that it might be so easy. But it's not so bad, being me. All the choices you make for the best possible reasons, all the decisions that are forced on you by other people... You just have to try and live with them the best you can. This world wants to grind us all down, force us all into little boxes with our names on - Mother, Father, Soldier, Slag. But names aren't who we are or what we are. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done or some of the men I've been with, but it's alright. Whatever gets you through the night. Remember that Sarah. You might think you understand it now, but give it a few years and it will start to make a whole new kind of sense."
She flicked the fag butt into the gutter, then stood up and pulled the hem of her skirt down to somewhere approaching modesty. She placed a hand on Sarah's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Take care love. I'll see you later."
Then she turned away and tottered off across the road on her wobbly heels, weaving slightly as she made her way through the saloon doors of The Feathers, off to look for someone to buy her a nightcap. Sara sat in stunned silence, watching her go, then just staring at the empty street until Bill finally turned up. He was an hour late, full of beer and apologies, but for once, Sarah couldn't bring herself to blame him. For now, it was enough that he was there.

Notes