Upwards behind the onstreaming ... MP3
Read by Tony Bell
Keith sits on a cold metal seat in Victoria Station, his last double washing around his head. He feels like an anaesthetised tooth, his pain hollowing him out. He puts his hand in his pocket and it slips around his front door key. The metal teeth bite his fingertips, reminding him that he can’t go home.
He would do anything to be like that.
"I can arrange that for you," says a voice from beneath his feet.
He looks down. There amongst the bloom of concentric shadows are the black overlapping petals of a mouth. The figure has no eyes and no nose, but there are what might pass for hands, which the clustered lights extend into webs of long, tentacular fingers.
"Arrange what?" says Keith to the shadow.
"For you to forget," it replies. Its voice is similar to his, he supposes, if he had gone to a better school. Keith rocks back in his seat and swallows. He closes his eyes and opens them, but the shadow is still there. It waves at him with angled tendrils. He swallows.
"Are you going to give me three wishes then, is this that sort of thing?" he says.
"Do you want it to be?" says the shadow. Keith scratches his head. He remembers these types of stories from his childhood.
"If it is, then my first wish is to have more wishes," he says.
"This is why it’s not going to be that sort of thing," says the shadow, making a passable attempt at a Gallic shrug.
There is a dry rustling sound as it rubs the back of one of its hands with the palm of the other. Blood rushes through Keith’s ears. He feels suddenly sober and grief breaks over him again in a wave. He suppresses a sob. Tenderly, the shadow runs its fingers over his shoulder. Keith shivers and tears glisten in the corners of his eyes.
"Let it all out," says the shadow, "I'm here for you."
Keith doesn't want to talk, but before he knows it the words are tumbling out of him.
"I don't feel like I've ever really been alive," he says. "Perhaps, I'm just not even supposed to be here,"
"There, there," whispers the shadow, patting him the way a cat might pat at a dead mouse.
"And I keep thinking of something that happened when I was four or five," he says. "I was sitting in the bath listening to my mother reading a story, and there was this nonsense phrase in it, 'upwards behind the onstreaming the dark silvers in the moonness.'"
The shadow stifles a shadowy yawn.
"I leant back to listen, but the bath was one of those old enamel ones, and I slipped backwards. The next thing I remember, I was looking up from under the water. There was just the tickle of bubbles in my ears and everything was lit up with this blue glow. I saw my mother standing in the bathroom doorway and there was this shadow, like a spider, leaching into the corner of the room –"
"– and your breath?" prompts the shadow.
"– bubbles streamed out of my mouth like a string of pearls." Keith wipes his eyes with his fingers. "When I think about it, I feel like part of me stayed there, under the water."
The shadow nods and its fantail hands glide towards him.
"The truth is that everyone's shadow is woven from dead things," it says, "people you've left behind or things that didn't happen, nostalgia for the impulses that you never acted upon or regret for those that you did. As you can see," it says, "as your shadow, I am really rather well fed."
Keith dries his nose on his sleeve.
"But listen, it's late," it says, "and I don't want you to miss the last train."
Keith stumbles across the concourse, past a ticket inspector who ignores him anyway and climbs aboard the train. He works his way up the empty carriages from one headrest to another, swaying like a pirate in high seas as the train pulls out of the station. He finds a deserted first class carriage and slumps into a darkened corner.
He feels like he's collapsing in on himself, fading again, disappearing from the view of the universe. If he just blinked out of existence now, who would even know that he'd ever been alive?
"That's the spirit," breathes a voice from the opposite corner of the carriage. The train plunges into a tunnel and slows to a halt. It shakes for an instant and the lights go out.
With the hissing of silk on silk the shadow unfurls. Keith feels its fingers stroking his face like cobwebs.
"What do I have to do ... to forget?" he asks.
"Simple," says the shadow, its voice very soft and very close to his ear, "we just need to swap places." Keith thinks that the shadow might be holding its breath and hovering in the dark close enough to kiss him. The earthy smell of rotten fruit clogs the back of his throat.
It sighs and opens its hand. Inky fingers glide across the carriage and caress the door release. It opens with a pneumatic sigh.
"All you need to do is hop out. To show some resolve. Be willing to take a risk," it whispers, "I'll be with you, every step of the way."
Keith rises to his feet and clambers across the carriage, belching and determined. This will show her. Show them, he thinks. He pauses. In the tunnel outside there's nothing but the sound of the wind. He smells rain and leans on the doorframe, smudging his fingertips with grease.
"You won't remember," says the shadow, "but Janet will never forget you."
He takes a breath, summons up all of his courage and launches into the dark, hitting the stone ballast below him like an empty sack. The shadow flutters to his side and all its sham urbanity evaporates. "Kneel," it hisses and Keith obeys, pitching himself forward over the metal tracks. The shadow presses his head against the rail.
The steel sings in his ear, announcing the oncoming train long before Keith sees it. A voice far away in his belly screams that he should get up, but the shadow presses down on him and his limbs go numb as though filled with ice water.
It is only then that Keith feels his shadow’s hunger; its need to be seen and heard. It whispers to him of the cold, dark world it comes from and of all the people who have already been consumed by their shadows.
They meet at the dead of night, it says, under motorway bridges, in closed railway stations, in darkened cafes, talking in screeches and staring at each other with eyes that are filled with octopus ink and longing. This is the way it has always been, says the shadow, for those like him.
The train appears, its lights diffusing into a blue glow. Keith whimpers and his tears melt the oncoming lights into a string of pearls. He feels the wet kiss of rain on his cheek and realises he doesn't want to die.
He tries to sit up, but the shadow bears down on him, forcing the air out of his chest. A black butterfly tongue uncoils from its mouth and flickers along his cheek, tasting his tears. He breathes in and twists with all his strength. He frees his left hand and tries to push himself off the ringing metal.
The oncoming train is a blur and a deafening roar. The stone ballast dances a rattling jitterbug beneath the rails. A bow wave of air announces its arrival, making Keith’s ears pop. With a yell he finally forces himself upright, the muscles in his arms and legs crackle. He cannons sideways, rolling beneath the shadow. The train pummels the tracks an instant later in a wall of thunder and metal and the shadow is torn to smoke and rags by the light and the noise.
There is a second of silence and then the lights in the carriage flicker on. Keith runs out of the tunnel, hops across a muddy brook and into the wooded embankment. He reaches into his pocket and flings his front door key away, then his jacket, then his shirt and his trousers. Naked and shadow-less he runs, laughing, through the trees, while upwards behind the onstreaming the dark silvers in the moonness.
(c) Philip Suggars, 2014
Philip Suggars has a yellow eye in the centre of his forehead and a collection of vintage binoculars. His work has appeared in many places, including the Guardian and Interzone. He was winner of the Ilkley Literature Festival award in 2011 and runner-up for the 2012 James White Award.Web: www.myelectriceye.wordpress.com Twitter:@felipeazucares
Tony Bell: Evening Standard Award nominee for A Man for All Seasons, he’s performed all over the world with award-winning all-male Shakespeare company, Propeller, playing Bottom, Feste, Autolycus and Tranio. TV includes Coronation Street, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, EastEnders & The Bill. He is also a radio and voiceover artist.
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