1983

The swan dead.

Unending, this place unending;

Under the grass that grows -

Between the cracks and the stones -

The beautiful carpets -

Waiting for the others, underground.’

Silence -

Silence, the circle unbroken:

Holding George’s right hand. George Bill’s. Bill mine. I Jack’s -

Jack holding hers:

Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big trees with hearts cut into their bark, losing their leaves in July;

28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big house with her heart cut into flats, losing her paintwork and her lead;

Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, St John’s, Wakefield -

Big room with dark ways, hearts and heads lost;

My eyes are open -

Low sobs, muffled sobs, she is weeping;

Looking into my eyes -

Weeping;

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows:

‘It’s happened once before -’

Cavernous tears:

‘- and it’s happening now.’

Tears, then -

Silence -

The silence, but outside:

Outside behind the heavy crimson curtains, the branches of the big tree are tapping upon the glass of the big windows, their leaves lost in July -

Wanting in;

Wanting her -

My eyes open and looking into hers;

I want to drop Bill’s hand, let go of Jack -

To reach out across the table -

Free her from the chains -

The prisons:

The certain death that I see here -

That terrible, horrible voice that gloats, that boasts:

‘I AM NO ANGEL -

‘I AM NO FUCKING ANGEL!’

Looking into my eyes -

Weeping;

Rising and falling -

Beneath her shadows:

In the Season of the Plague, the meat -

Two black crows eating from black bin-bags, ripping through her sweet meat -

Screams echoing into the dark, sliding back on her arse up the hall, arms and legs splayed, her skirt riding up; scared sobs from behind a door, the sound of furniture being moved, of chests and drawers and wardrobes being placed in front of the door -

A faint voice through the layers and layers of wood, a child whispering to a friend beneath the covers: ‘Tell them about the others…’

On my feet, across the table -

Teacups and teapot falling to the floor -

I shake her -

I scream: ‘What others?’

Her eyes open and looking into mine -

She says: ‘All the others under those beautiful carpets.’

‘What fucking others?’

Bill and George are on their feet now -

The candles out -

Pulling back the curtains, Jack spewing into his palm -

I am screaming -

I am summoning her back from the Underground, the court of the Dead:

A cold and dark December place when I open up the bedroom door to find her lying cold and still upon the floor -

Bill and George taking my arms -

Pulling me off;

Her pushing me off -

Pushing me away, whispering: ‘Please tell them where they are.’

‘What?’ I say -

Standing up in the light;

But in the light -

The dead daylight -

There are bruises on the backs of my hands -

(Local bruises) -

Bruises that won’t heal.

Part 3. Dreams less sweet

‘The Christian Church has always condemned magick, but she has always believed in it. She did not excommunicate sorcerers as madmen who were mistaken, but as men who were really in communion with the Devil.’

– Voltaire

Chapter 26