Rebecca Gransden

SEA OF GLASS

unu

The traction of the air. Three pygmy people swept past Kattar, kicking the stack of cardboard boxes, shredding them into paper dust down the street, away from the flames, so they wouldn’t catch and light everybody up. Tachypneic toy dogs crawled along the gutter, snapping at his heels only to curl away in wait for the next legs. The buildings edificed the sky, a sky in ice-pole raspberry blue somewhere up there. Great sticks of gleaming blocks, outstretched in avenue, made to be bold and dwarf, the kings of the survey, your measly head an abstract under the bitter flashlight.

White Van Man screamed inside. The fire violence was a shitshow. People stopped or hurried faster, there was no in-between. Kattar wanted to go to the man in the van, just to stop his noise, it was drawing out. Barking of the dogs behind meshed with the sunlight and inflating flames. Golden rays rained on the road, indirect always, entrenched in the guidance of the glass, caramel over shoppers, their bodies deathly glowing as they rush through the district to shops elsewhere.

Bellows of the last of life tucked into the flame, the van wavy inside the light. The White Van Man was losing all that he had and there was nothing to be done. Because of the heat.

A policeman, fluorescent, inserted himself into view and instructed with the correct gestures and everyone stepped back. The brightness shone and moved over all the street, the faces illuminated in watch. Kattar wandered, hands in pockets, leg over leg, twisted knee strolling backwards, eye on the van on fire, ears for the screams but they died.

A man, advanced in years, took off his glasses and methodically cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, staring ahead with grey cataracts.

“Do you know what happened?” Kattar said.

“Well, I was standing over there, just by where the van is.” The elderly man pointed a sharp finger to the burning vehicle. “Can you believe it? I don’t trust my own eyes.” He shook his head. “The uncanniest thing happened. A bright beam of light, exactly like a sophisticated laser from a movie, came down from above and aimed itself right at that van there. I was transfixed but no-one else seemed to notice. I think it’s because I’ve just received a new set of spectacles and I’m seeing through them strangely at the moment.” He blinked and tears ran from squinting. “The sun hit one of the windows high on the building and it magnified the light sending it right onto that poor fellow. Happened really quickly too, must’ve been very intense that beam. One second and the whole van was alight.”

“No time to get out? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I know. But I’ve lived a long time—time enough to understand that there’s not much sense around.” The elderly man reached for his glasses and removed them, holding them before his clouded gaze. “These aren’t doing me much good. I’d like you to have them. You’ve been good to me, talked me through this experience. Doesn’t matter if you can’t see through them, they’re made of gold and glass, nothing more. Sell them if you like, I’m done with them.”

Kattar waved a hand. “No, I couldn’t. Surely you need them.”

“If you don’t take these young man I’ll give them to the gutterdogs for a plaything. Here, give me your palm.”

The elderly man took hold of Kattar’s hand and placed the folded glasses onto the upturned and open palm. “Close up those fingers boy, and hold tight.” Kattar folded his hand around the glasses while his eyes followed the elderly man as he disappeared between milling bodies.

The street turned black. Kattar brushed the concrete hard, down, winded. Feet pushed on him, several sooty hands used his body as a way to clamber forwards and away, soon running people trampled him through descended smoke. Voices, frail and on the move, said “Run! Run!” inside the darkness.

Tart metal smell streaked to his gullet, he gagged and saliva poured in and out of him, meeting fat dust speckling on the whites of his eyes. The smoke was the new atmosphere. People came close in outline—damaged incoherent parody silhouettes—and then went. He struggled against them and their approach, glancing blows under the darkness, and got to his feet not knowing which way his head should tell him up. Obtuse light formed high above and the erect shadow of his building hovered hazy and tantalising. Unmoored, he lunged and reached through the heated choke, to slam a brittle shoulder against slick polished granite. Square light appeared some steps away as someone switched on the lobby inside. The opal eyes were vacant, peeping from blackened and crusted faces slashed with crimson; stunned stragglers caught in the brightness spilling into the street. Only for a second. Kattar headed for the doors to the building, his own eyes seeping, his vision blurred and overwhelmed. Pounding on the glass, he pushed his lips to the meeting place of the edges of the closed automatic doors.

“Kattar Bassis,” he said. He couldn’t hear himself. “I work here. I have access. ID. Open up.”

A shadow moved inside, then froze.

“Really. I’m employed here. I usually come in the back way.”

The shadow moved away and all was white again.

Pain hit him in a tease of what it could do to him, a sharp pang somewhere deep and suggesting the lung. Mouthfuls of stifling funk worked its way in. Fits of coughs ejected bloodied spatter onto the dusted glass doors.

The doors swished slowly open and he stumbled across a ridged rubber mat into the light and up against the closed inner security doors. Manic breathing to gain some control, cold sweating meant his clammy pallor stuck to the glass as he twisted to stay upright. He’d deteriorated quickly. A woman in a dark suit—the shadow he assumed, he could blink her into life now—walked up to the glass and inspected him. She shut the doors behind him, before anyone else could bolt and join him inside the threshold, trapping him in the no-man’s-land between the closed panes, and the wafting grey smoke slowly dissipated, sucked away into the building.

“Get your breath back sir,” she said from the other side of the glass inner door, her voice muffled and only half way understandable, “I have to check you are who you say you are before I let you in. You understand, in today’s climate.”

He looked outside at that day’s weather. He understood. He smirked.

du

Tongue filled his mouth, swollen by contact with the smoke. He sat agog at the silence outside, fleeting hints of the daylight above soon covered by the wandering blanket of dust. The movement of the black cloud played against the harsh artificial lamp of the building’s lobby light, strange thicknesses weaving. Sunk to the floor, he rolled his sensitive skull against the glass, his back to where the woman had gone, sensing she’d be in no rush to confirm his person and let him in. To her he was safe enough, and safely away from her also. She was doing him a favour, letting this foreign man rest on her threshold. His breathing freely was her gift, anything else at this stage—under siege from whatever spectres were her fear of choice—too much for him to ask and he knew it. He’d kill for something to quench the thirst though.

A tap on the glass above his head. She stood, tall, inquisitive, tablet in her hand. “Put your ID up against the glass so I can see it sir.”

He fumbled in his backpack and took out the pristine laminated card, queerly reflective, and pushed it hard to the glass right in front of her face. “I’ll get you some water, Mr Bassis,” she said, and went to the reception desk to buzz the doors open.

Kattar hopped to the waiting area seating and sprawled onto a low light grey padded chair. He breathed easier now, with the air conditioned. Vast sheets of glass, floor to ceiling, formed the front of the building either side of the entry doors. The blackness remained, made pitch in its contrast to the inner sanctum brightness, a spectral lobby perfect in mirror image against the swirling morass outside.

The flooring sparkled white, his dusty footprints interrupting its reflectiveness. White procumbent fungi paraded the white tub at his elbow, drooping downwards fleshy and flaccid. His ankle ached where a bony trainer had pressed weightily on it while he’d been prostrate in the panic. Bruised, he checked himself but he was okay, rattled nerves mostly, nothing broken. Snapped. Pulverised. Burned. Disintegrated. Annihilated.

The shadow held out a glass of water. “Are you alright?” she said, “You know, physically?”

“I’ll live.” Kattar crudely drank. “Do you know what happened?” His hearing was almost back to normal but for acute tinnitus.

“Yeah, a van caught fire and blew up. Weren’t you there for the explosion? I assumed you’d seen everything as you were right outside just as it went up.”

“I saw the smoke, the chaos. I didn’t hear it though. That’s strange.”

“Maybe the noise blew your eardrums.”

“I thought that, but my hearing is returning now. Why is it still so black out there?”

“I’ve just received instruction not to open the front entranceway. The van was full of a chemical that’s dangerous apparently. I’ve maybe poisoned myself by letting you in here.” She laughed, briefly. “It’s going to take hours for the substance to burn off until it’s safe for anyone to go near. We should move to somewhere else in the building, incase whatever is hazardous in the air is seeping in here somehow. Where’s your area?”

He curled a smile. “Facility staff.” The shadow paused awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m a cleaner for this building,” he said, wiping filth from his dewy brow. She led him up to the bright, white, and shiny reception desk and he leant his shocked torso on it as she moved to the opposite side to take to her chair. The tight black pencil skirt caused her to pivot gracefully into her seat.

“I have to see where I can give you access to with this ID. I have a feeling you may not have permission to come into the building from this way.” She fingered his passcard whilst tapping at a keyboard, the keys flat but programmed to mimic the sound of an early model PC.

“Can’t you make an exception? I mean, this must count as extreme circumstances or something.”

The lobby sat in echoey silence, insulated from the outside. His wrecked ears heard soft frequency, almost imperceptible, harmonic without origin, almost a sing. With the ordeal his hearing had been through he couldn’t be sure if what he was experiencing was an auditory hallucination, or if the beautiful sound he strained to catch was a product of the acoustic properties of the lobby space.

Behind her the white marble walls had been decorated with interlacing carvings, raised from the surface; forms of human hands, beaks of nectar sipping birds, fibonacci ideals in nautilus and snail shell, the repetitive ridges of sea shell casings, giant eyes of undersea creatures, twisted tendrils of ferns and octopi, serrated predatory teeth, pin sharp talons, microbial and cellular symmetries. He spied a name on her, woven onto her jacket breast pocket in golden thread. ‘Petra’ it gleamed, just like the shine from her flaxen hair, fixed in a relaxed and tidy bun on her slightly oversized cranium. “It says I can’t let you in,” she said, scrutinising him.

Kattar’s hand clenched, reminding him that he still held the glasses the elderly man had insisted he take. He yelped and shook his hand and the spectacles dropped to the white floor, smashing their lenses. The shards lay dotted with fine red pinpricks of his blood, golden frame clinking over the white floor and coming to a stop. He’d crushed them unknowingly, hand scratched with crisscrossing imprints from shattered glass, his skin rubbed pink and broken in a few places, bleeding lightly in trails along the lines in his palm.

The shadow rose from behind the white desk, picking up a small white bin. She handed it to Kattar. “Use the tissues in the waiting area,” she said, her eyes directed at the mess, “so you don’t cut yourself and get blood over anything else.”

He dusted the broken fragments into the bin, dampened the tissue with some of the water she’d delivered to him, and scrubbed the tiny blood marks away, already solidified and attached to the smooth rock floor. The golden frames glistened in the stark light. Without their lenses the spectacles took on the condition of an artefact. He lifted and inspected them in view of the shadow, who herself was drawn to focus on the frames. He caught her looking.

“They are pure gold, the type that tests fire without fear,” he said. “See me through the building and you can have them. I only want passage, through some connecting hallway to my backroom full of chemicals and devices for cleaning this place. If I’d’ve come in the back way I’d be allowed access into this part of the tower no problem. I work this floor sometimes, when my rota brings me here, when I can swipe my card over the reader and I get the nod. You can send me the other way, can’t you? Back to my dirty work. Surely you realise I don’t belong out here, in the cleanliness.”

Blue eyes studied the frames as Kattar twiddled the metal, causing star sparkles to dance around on the gold. “Can I try them?” she said.

“Push a button, flick a switch, do what you have to to let me through. That toxic air may be on us right now, I don’t want the poison, not today. Let me through, Petra, and these are yours to try out as long as you like.”

She hung her head and tilted her eyes to the screen. “Go down the corridor that runs behind me, past the elevators—do not use the elevators, understand?—and go left until you reach a staff restricted door. It will be unlocked. After that you’ll have to work out your way for yourself.”

Kattar traced his eyes a final time over the gold frame, shining in his hand, the vision of the elderly man and his cataracts unshakable. She reached out for the spectacles, took them carefully and placed them on her face.

“You should vacate this area too,” Kattar said.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just going to sit here for a while, see if they suit me.” She slumped and sunk into a distant reverie, caressing the frames, running her fingers the length of the gold, poking her digits through the holes where the shattered glass had inhabited.

Kattar grabbed his ID and headed to the corridor into the building, striding a wide entranceway overlooked by white crystal chandeliers, white sconces billowing white candle flames, and white pulsating lights indicating that most of the elevators were travelling to the highest floors of the building. He reached the end of the tightening hallway, and an elevator pinged open, empty. To the left, the brightness intensified, phosphorescent tube lights blended into the fittings, dado rails and coving made of illumination, leading him to a severe door, reinforced and wired, at the end of the corridor.

tri

A stairwell, dank grey, overcast with light from small windows with mottled glass. He recognised the stink as that of moulded concrete, its crenelations holding the residue of a thousand mops, back and forth, up and down, under strip light and broken bulbs, backup generator dullness and floodlight strength midwinter flashlights. His familiar chemicals never freshened here, only masked the decay, smelled old and evolving to decrepit.

The door clicked shut behind him. He tried to open it again—not because he wanted to use it, but to confirm the way of the world. It was locked of course.

The way from here was his domain, these flights his labyrinth for scurrying between floors where his staff elevator didn’t reach, where he’d be forced to leave his trolley behind and lumber his cleaning gear to the area he’d been assigned to cleanse. Downwards led to a shadowy store, populated with materials left over from construction, too awkward to move once the building had encased them, abandoned to rot away, the occasional rat catcher stalking its crumbling foundational pillars. A dead end.

Kattar headed upwards, the soreness of his body kicking in, his ankle jangling against hard concrete steps. Past several floors, no point trying those doors for access, they were never for him without special permission, the hospitality floors, the showcase facade. Painted wood beam railings jackknifed to the heavens, black pointers a guiding thread weaving to the top. He grasped a slick palm on them, thankfully not the injured one, and hurried in his ascent to the floors above, his regular haunts, where his face went about unquestioned and he could float like a boring phantom.

The climb took more out of him than normal, although all he carried was his bag, and he’d conquered this route countless times with equipment many percentages heavier. He remembered his lungs and how the pain had struck him down, the rumours of poison in the atmosphere, and the fatigue for the body and mind in aftereffect. Screw work today, how could they dare penalise him for taking off as soon as he could? He foresaw the battle with his bosses because he expected the beast to bash him always, then calmed himself from caring too much. Worst case he’d lose this forsaken job. He’d take the first EXIT and sleep until the consequences.

Several floors up, the door to office space would see him right, to find different steps, a back way out. He rounded the final corner, the stairwell dreary light-falls hampering his attempts to see clearly. Echoes of his rasping breaths sunk downstairs. The door he expected had changed. A brocade curtain, heavy and ornate, hung in its place, gently swinging as a warm stream of soft air brushed its bottom tassels. Kattar stopped, looked the curtain up and down. Edged with elaborate black stitching, it covered the doorway in a dark velvet sheen, the low light sometimes caught on swirling patterns impressed into the material, silver threads in constant flux forming and disassembling images too fleeting to comprehend but instilling menace all the same. He glanced down the stairwell behind him and then stepped to admire the straight drop to the bottom. The way back had been cut off and meant no way out. Freaky day. He frowned and stood, instinctual half-shakes this way and that, on autopilot, as he unconsciously considered his options. This was beyond him, he’d managed to work that out at least.

The pull of the EXIT saw him approach the curtain and poke at it with his little finger, the one he’d least mind losing. The material swung forcefully, and came away from the doorframe in brief flourishes to show the blackness beyond. Slowly, he swept the curtain aside and the silver thread morphed and transformed, pulsating on his forearm as he came into contact with it. He saw nothing ahead and entered.

He bumped into the curved wooden backs of a row of chairs, unseen in the darkness. A stage lit up below him revealing a small theatre, and him stood behind the back row of concavely placed seating. Relaxed steps descended to both sides of him toward a shadowy orchestra pit. A head moved to his left—a couple sat a few rows down in the far left section, the woman turning her head, eyes filled with night pupils.

The light illuminated the stage dingily, creating a fluctuating effect, fuzzy like static. Great scarlet curtains striated in large folds in a frame, and arced overhead in muscular sweeps fastened with fancy ligaments. The stage floor glistened coldly, sanded pepsi shine, scratched and scoured. Kattar scanned the dark edges of the theatre for a lit EXIT sign but all was black.

The woman, black eyes unblinking, raised her hand and drew a graceful and pale finger silently to her lips, telling him to be quiet though neither of them had made a sound. He strafed the chairs, and took a seat to the upper right of the middle section. The woman’s head had returned to face the stage, her, and her companion’s, features turned away from him.

Dull footsteps plagued the rear of the stage, the low shuffling and sliding of the movement of scenery emitting from behind a blank wall at the back made of chipboard painted charcoal.

A man walked onto the stage, dressed like a builder, can of booze in hand. He raised his free hand flat to meet his brow and peeped from underneath it out to the audience. “Sorry folks,” he said, “We’ve run over.” He walked a few paces, then paused, took a hard swig. “There is somebody out there, isn’t there?” Kattar froze. The builder straightened his baseball cap, and then caught sight of the couple to the left. “Thought we’d have this all ready for you but, unfortunately, due to some unforeseen delays, which always happen but are never accounted for, the show will not be going on today.” He flexed the aluminium of his can, sloppy liquid sound and metallic crackling. The auditorium thronged with the silence of him up there, onstage, gazing quizzically over the pit to the heads, so few they didn’t matter anyway. How many heads would’ve been needed for the audience to matter? “You’re those zeitgeisty folks, ain’t ya?” The stench of alcohol flew from the stage to infuse the place, carried in the diminishing light. “I work in construction, always have, in the blood. I saw what it did to my father, haggard and bent over with destroyed bones before he was old, and I thought, well, might as well sign up for that. Pays regular. Folks like you will always need guys like me to build the scenery.”

The woman’s companion snorted.

“Hey, don’t you get derisive with me sir. I’m just the messenger. Nothing I say is what you don’t know already, so let’s not pretend otherwise.” The builder took off his cap and frisbeed it into the blackness. “Fetch.”

The woman sniggered. Her companion straightened his back in his seat, his head rising to poke above hers in black in the murkiness. “I’d leave this be if I were you. I could easily get you fired, you know?” the companion said, nasally.

The builder stifled a wry chuckle and took some careless glugs. “No, you’re right. I apologise. There’s no reason to get shirty. You understand, I’ve been here, on this job, a little too long I think. It hurts me that we didn’t make it on time, that you folks have to suffer so, stuck not knowing when, or if, what you’ve come to see will be occurring or not. You’ve maybe travelled a long way, or this is a special occasion you’ve been looking forward to. I made assumptions, forgive me.” He sat down at the edge of the stage and dangled his legs into the pit. “Think of all the wonderful music created right here. Some of it must remain, recorded in the walls somehow, the residue of all those beauteous melodies playing somewhere for eternity. I’m getting sentimental now, indulge me for a time. Once this job is over I shan’t be coming back here, you see. It’s just not my thing to buy a ticket.”

The companion started reciting a tune, “La, la, laaa, la, la, le, la, lee, laa.” Dismissive, mocking, growing in contempt with volume, “Leee, le, la, lala, laa, boom, boom.”

Tears ran down the builder’s face, streaking salted pathways through the grey dust that covered him. He went to tip the remaining booze into his mouth but hesitated, examined the can, lifted his eyes, and hurled the can at the companion’s face with full ferocity.

The can impacted with a forceful slapping sound. The companion cried out gutturally, holding his alpha tones through the agony, clasping his face, trying not to be a squirmer.

Muzzy light haloed the builder.

With fists coming out of the darkness, stained in his own blood, the companion yanked the builder from the stage, dragging him by his clothes, messing up his day, striking him with knuckles, coughing incensed breath in his face, teaching him the class. The builder struggled within the onslaught, never a chance of breaking free of it, but wrestling and wrestling against. The companion dragged the construction worker around the vacant pit, their faces sometimes coming into the dull light, bleak stills of the encounter, getting rusty and redder. The woman stood at her seat watching them both, horrified black eyes powerless. She turned to Kattar and lifted her shuddering finger to her lips.

Desperation in the cries meant it would be over soon. Kattar looked for an EXIT in the black, to escape from any attention the quiet aftermath may bring him. He floated backwards, stealthily feeling his way into the darkness of the theatre, moving towards deep shadow opposite to where he’d entered the place. Rounded fittings came out of nowhere until he arrived at a sleek section of wall. Some exploratory pads revealed a doorknob. He twisted it and the glossy black door creakily opened. He hurt himself pirouetting around the wood as fast as he could, to get through to somewhere else, to get away.

kvar

Corridor coloured in strychnine lay ahead, tousled ceilings pressing heavy, neutron negative walls covered in images of frozen hirsute conquistadors. Armour plates of grimed steel railed into the dark distance, battering ram in faux for reassurance. Lights out.

Swirly patterns spiralled in the rich crimsons and melted oranges of the carpet, illusory movements as Kattar swept his vision up the corridor. Ebony frames held portraits of the suited, ties uptight, brushstroke irises pinpointed to meet your gaze specifically. He plodded his feet forward, to somewhere unclean, this place he’d never been assigned. The depth he was an imposter for.

He came across a man in the dark. The man sat on the floor, back resting against the left wall, unmoving, eyes bulging on a pallid face, laughter lines jeering in agony, he looked like a tattletale. Black suit, navy tie undone, striped shirt faded and damp with sweat. Underneath his dress he atrophied, spindly legs in outsized trousers, inside his jacket his torso was as if a juvenile had cancered Christmas.

“I’ll be your saviour,” he said, his voice choirboy and nice. “I’ll tell you the best way to run.”

Kattar used the wall to keep himself upright, the corridor was a mentalist, using quack tricks to make him swim, the half light creating dimensions that said unreal. “What do you mean? I’m wanting the exit please.” Kattar felt his voice leave his larynx disassociated from the words, not recognising them as his cadence, the way he would’ve spoken them if all was right and not in disjunct.

“He walks these halls,” the man said. A gleaming track of spittle ran down his chin and the suited man wiped it away, eyes darting in a searching fit, his body feverish, wired and stuttering. Ageing vinegar soaked the musty corridor, dust freewheeling in the stagnancy. The man winced, a contraction doubling him over. “I’ve got stitch,” he said, “I can’t get up. Every time I try, I’ve got stitch.” Corpuscular bobbles on the carpet suspended fibrous reds. What light there was was in the air, and it tinkled faintly.

“If I keep going the exit will come.”

“I can’t find it, because I can’t get up. If you go back into the darkness he won’t find you. You may get a licking but what he’ll do is worse.”

“But I can’t get out that way.”

He laughed, a cracked gurgle from deep down. “You’re crazy if you think there’s a way out of here.”

“You’re the one who’s crazy.” Kattar went to move away from the suited man. “Good luck, fella.”

“Wait.” The man thrust out a rigid arm and wrapped bony fingers around Kattar’s swinging wrist. “I’ve been crawling around this place. I can’t remember for how long. I know how to hide from him. Maybe if we team up we could find a way, you and me. You’ll not make it on your own, you don’t know the signs, what gives him away.”

“Who do you mean?”

Expression drained from the suited man’s face. “Mr Wayfarer.” He loosened his grip as Kattar delayed his motion to leave.

The suited man slumped into the wall, expelling a light tremble, his breaths steadier and transforming into cathartic sighs. “I’m so tired. He’s going to catch me, I know it. He’s come close recently, because I’m exhausted. He takes people, he takes them right in front of you. They don’t leave with him. He takes them then and there.”

Kattar looked the man over. “Listen, I’m sorry but I can’t carry you around. If you can stand you can come with me.”

The suited man grimaced. “Yeah, I understand. I’d probably slow you down anyway.”

“When I find the way out, I’ll send help for you.”

“Sure you will.”

“You have my word.”

“Do I?” He laughed. “Who gives their word anymore, let alone means it?”

“I do.”

“You’re a regular quester, ain’t ya. One of those crusader types. Is your word your bond? This place will see what that is worth.”

“What choice do you have?”

The suited man lowered his gaze. “I suppose I’ll believe you then. My faith is as good placed in that direction as any other.” He nodded, his head weary, eyelids drowsy.

Kattar lowered to rest on one knee. “How do I know him when I see him?”

“Most times if you see him it’s too late. But I’ve seen him, because I know how to hide in the walls. Life has hidden recesses and crevices for scurriers like me. He walks these halls, never stops, never sleeps, one slow pace unending. I’m not sure he’s conscious, not in a way you or I would understand. He’s bald and he doesn’t have a proper face, just pink skin and an open hole for a mouth. He always sounds far away, even when he’s close, and noises inhabit the hole; like voices heard whispering about you out of earshot, or the awful breeze in the treetop leaves at night. The only way to avoid him is to use your instinct. I’ve honed mine, it’s only fatigue that’s interfering with it. I’m going to try to last as long as I can, simply because I can’t face him, don’t want to go out like that, like what I’ve seen him do.”

“You better tell me what this Mr Wayfarer does, so I can prepare myself.”

The suited man wheezed a dismissive cackle. “There’s nothing you can do to protect yourself against Mr Wayfarer. He’s got your number. He’s got everyone’s. Besides if I tell you you’ll definitely go back to the darkness and my one shot at getting out of here will be kaput.”

“I’ve already told you that I’m heading for the exit no matter what.”

“Not if you knew, lad. Not if you knew.” The man shook a contorted finger at Kattar’s face. Kattar backed away, eyeing the thinness of the man as the man’s piercingly black pupils gazed up full of want.

Kattar turned away from the suited man, towards the way onwards, the corridor in gloom, a panelled dark wood door hazy at the carpet runner’s end.

“You’ll not come back,” the suited man said, calling out as Kattar left him, “Nobody ever does who doesn’t ask my name. Means you don’t really give a shit, you see.”

Kattar picked up the pace because in his heart he knew the suited man had the truth. “Fucking wacko,” he said, under his breath.

The door arrived sooner than it should, and he bashed his shoulder against it. It swung open fluidly, bracing grey light beyond. A zigzag of cubicles decorated a cavernous open floor, vacant and reverent, waiting area chairs placed haphazardly in the middle of the throughways facing nonsensical directions. A row of partitioned larger offices lined one side, the entirety of the room encased in glass window, the ceiling as if floating on airy nothing. The cubicles shone brilliantly in moulded chrome, polished like it had never been touched. Kattar edged out into the floor, around a waiting chair angled to face an empty corner view, and strolled alongside the run of cubicles. Their sheen was dazzling; everything on the desktops—computers, stationary, half eaten snacks, keepsakes, sentimental mementos, ironic mascots, fanboy paraphernalia—melded in chrome to become part of it.

A sharp whining sound, brief but distinct, carried from one of the closed offices, he couldn’t tell which. His first instinct was to hurry away, so he scanned for the EXIT. The sound again, this time in definition as a female voice, without words, imploring, pathetic. His best guess for its origin was the middle office. The voice sounded close. Mr Wayfarer was always in the distance. Maybe she knew the way out.

He stepped to the middle office door and opened it.

The city met him, glass panels perpendicular across the street reflecting milky honey in hive-like gold, the surrounding buildings imposing opulent recidivism in refraction. A female cough made him look at the floor beside the wrought iron desk. The woman lay, her legs and lower body gone, entrails—splayed underneath her highest end jacket—encrusted into, and interwoven with, the tight fibres of the steel blue carpet. She stared at him with wide eyes that hungered to escape from her face.

Kattar stumbled back, hitting the door a little, then bent forwards and propped himself with one arm on the desk. She started to cry, long distended whines, weakly expelled because there was nothing behind them, full of her perplexed end. Light beams spotlighted her from behind, an industrial nimbus caught in tacky hairspray.

Against his will he went to her, fighting his repulsion. Leaning awkwardly on one knee, he placed a steadying arm behind her shoulders. “What can I do?” She smelt really bad.

Despite her condition she breathed fairly reliably. “I won’t die,” she said, manic, “I’ve been here for days.” She coughed, catarrh leaking, rot on her death breath.

Kattar twitched, held his breath for as long as he could. The mess of innards was necrotic at the extremities but life pulsed closer to the body, spasming guts prickling amid the bodily goo. Blood blushed her cheeks and sweat ran down her face in teardrops. “I’ll go phone for help,” he said.

“The phones only work for calls made to inside the building.” She clenched her teeth and hugged her tremulous remaining body.

“What about email? Where’s your mobile?”

“We’re not allowed cell phones,” she said, her accent now American, “and all outside communication was severed days ago because of the threat level. We over thresholded on risk assessment.”

“You can’t be the only person here. Tell me where to go and I’ll get someone to help you.”

Her breathing accelerated. “There are others but I don’t think they’d help me. Not now. I’m marked you see. I got away from him.” She laughed, from her gut. “I don’t have knowledge of that ever happening before. I bet he wants me though, more than the random encounters he feeds on normally. He’s had some of me and probably won’t rest until I’m all his.”

“Mr Wayfarer.”

She quietened and stared at him. “How do you know about him? You’re an innocent.”

“The man in the corridor back there told me, the one wearing a suit.”

“I don’t know who he is, could be anyone.” She trembled violently. “Go get Anna, she’s the only one who will listen. Perhaps.”

“Okay. Where’s Anna?”

“Go to my desk. There’s a red passcard, gold lettering. It will let you access the higher levels. Anna took off. She was with me when it happened. She escaped. I don’t blame her for leaving me. She tried to stay. He’s quick.”

Kattar disentangled himself from her, lowering her pale frame backwards until her head rested against the books at the bottom of a decorative shelf unit. The desk had one drawer which squeaked on its runners as he opened it. The passcard sat as if waiting for him.

“I don’t know where she is,” she said, fading, “—just up, just up. Tell my friend I’m still here. She might want to be with me. By now she’s seen there’s no way out.”

Kattar stared at her, feeling it unfair to question her further in her increasing delirium. “I’m heading for the exit, so if I find that first I’m taking it.”

“I know. But you won’t find it. We’ve been hunting it for so long. So few of us left. Hiding now. Delaying the inevitable.” Her breaths were sharp intakes, punctuating the effort of speech. Liquid seeped from her, soaking into the weaves of the carpet, fat throbs shifting the fleshy tubes spilling her life.

A dark splat hit the glass behind Kattar, leaving a dirty slash across the window. It oozed streaky red, pinks, sometimes a hint of blue or purple. Another drop came creeping from above, running down the outside of the pane in slime and gristle, lumps of pinkish tissue smearing a sticky trail.

The woman panted. “Don’t worry. It’s just the Jumpers. They’ve jumped so many times they’re just mush now. It’s not as traumatic as at first, when they still looked like people. It was tough seeing them fall over and over. Slowly they started to break down. Now all that’s left of them is this goo.”

Behind the desk, the wide windowpane overlooked the companion building opposite, the outside bathed in funnelled sunlight. The glass gradually filled with the jelly of flesh, a scarlet filter of the city beyond, and a soft reddish haze covered everything inside the office.

“You better go,” she said in the ruddy murk, “sometimes he comes when the Jumpers put down their curtain.”

kvin

Kattar scarpered through the chrome cubicles and headed to the far corner of the floor, up to a pair of metallic lifts. The lights to indicate which floor the lifts were arriving at flickered wildly. He turned away from them and blasted through an access door to another vacant echoey stairwell.

The climb was swift, passcard held tightly against his wounded palm. After a number of levels he slowed, awed by wide and ornate double doors glistening silver in the waning light. A plastic card reader ran from the top of the meeting of the doors right to the bottom. He placed the dark red of the passcard between the firm lips of the reader at the highest point of the doors and steadily dragged it southwards, a bright light trail following its descent. When the white hot light reached the length of the doors and the passcard hit the floor he retracted it and stood back. The doors released with a resounding crack, so loud he fell into the wall behind him. Ajar only a little, all inside was black, a big nothing, as it had been with the curtain from the first stairwell. And just as before he went inside, to find the EXIT.

The theatre was empty, brighter, he could see more of it through the gloomy light this time, though its edges remained elusive. He wouldn’t dawdle in the place. The feeling that someone had only just coughed and left the room hit him. He rushed to where he’d found the way out before, the doorway in the dark he’d hurt himself trying to round. Now in the twilight of the stage there was no door, only old plaster and paint, an oddness to its colour.

The pit hummed at him, calling him forward, inviting his compliance. If he didn’t want to be stuck he’d have to move through didactic pathways, sacrifice his will to self-govern in extremis and resolve to temporarily surrender to whatever capricious assholes turned the cogs of the place.

He took the old steps to the stage floor and wandered to where the builder had sat. The pit was still and shadowy, no hint of the struggle that had taken place within. The emptiness soothed him and he allowed himself a pause to wilfully forget about his EXIT. Under the theatre light that fell on him, especially his face.

Name.

Take to the centre and forsake the mask, wear your best then let her undress you, all the moments flicker past in her, you stole her you know, hustled her like a numbskull in fluke, couldn’t ride her waves incandescent, so she spat you out poisoned chalice style, her movements pyrrhic victories you’d hold against her because she shone her fractured light on your want, now you wander umbilical precipitating perfected shits, walking away, forever walking away.

Kattar moved to backstage, around the chipboard blank scenery, wires hanging disconnected, copper and rubber tubes, nails in the walls. A power box was fixed to the wall near some steps leading into a dark way back farther. He opened the box, full of switches with stickers and worn away diagrams for instruction. One switch glowed green so he flicked it. Music filled the room, muffled from out front in the theatre. Closer, the sound of whirring machinery sprung into life, grating and squelchy.

Rumbling travelled from the stage on the other side of the scenery. He hesitantly moved to retrace his footsteps, peeping around the splintered wood to spy the open stage floor. There, in the middle of the stage, the flooring opening up, a square trapdoor controlled by robotic pulleys. From below a bulk rose, difficult to see, to make out at first, rounded and bent. It pushed from beneath, a portion of it caught under the sides of the trapdoor. The trapdoor gave and a foot sprung up, dirty and bruised. The body ascended, twisted, inverted, guided by rope, flopping at the knees, cracked skew-whiff at the ribcage. Discordant grimy guitars rattled in minor chords, reverb in a whirlwind around the theatre. Her thighs ready to split, like an unpicked sausage. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s daughter. If this is Anna then that’s too bad. The woman’s dress had fallen inside out and over her face, her hands peeking out from under the hanging material with wrists bound, a tattered bra rotted into her skin, the rest of her naked and bare. Someone had stripped her, hoisted her up, hidden faceless. Kattar couldn’t decide how to react. The sight of her was a world. The dress was stained, with dirt, excrement, patches of fluids. He found a clear section of hem and lifted it, to confirm her deadness. The shadow underneath showed a face beaten and shocked, lacerated cheeks pointing to a forehead with letters carved, the right way up for him, upside down for the woman. ‘Queen of Worms,’ it said in bloody cuts, as worms slimed through her hair and balled squirming inside the hole of her open mouth. Her eyes were shut.

Kattar dropped the hem of the dress, which fluttered back to cover the woman and her worms. This felt forensic. His neck hairs prickled like he was under observation, a study onstage. Now who was making him an actor? Shitty move, thinks it’s clever. But the body is real enough. The music tore his nerves, wearing him down, twangs turning into fuzzbox mush, distorted whines percussive and deconstructing feedback until his ears pounded hot. Was it louder, or he more sensitive? There was something in the music he couldn’t background anymore. Squinty, he glanced at the pit, but all was vacuum.

Blue flames emerged from her fingertips, softly curling them. The blue grew, flowed ethereally across her hands, took hold on the binding of her wrists, turning to warm orange flickering faster. The binds burned away and her arms swung free, her hands alight flung sideways, rocking to and fro. The flames travelled along her arms and ignited the dress, which burned with white intensity up her frame. At this the body screamed and gurgled, expelling worms in a cascading arc, contorting against the flames. Violent as the yells were they carried an unnatural music, frequencies spectral. Kattar stood transfixed with astounded curiosity because she sounded long dead. The flash of fire enveloped her, and a wriggling cocoon of light undulated spitting cinders and rolling sparks. Kattar held out his hand, reaching cautiously, to find no heat to the flame. The sparks at his feet travelled over the dark floor to catch every wiggling worm, and crisp them up on collision leaving charred pellets in their place. Mid flow the smouldering brickettes briefly formed the words ‘FIND ESPE’ in fierce orange before continuing to scatter and then cool to coal dust.

The light on the woman diminished and she hung blackened, swinging gently, tannery shine like midnight.

ses

Backstage the music stopped. Tassels bumped him as he fled, clomping the boards to the wings, spider silks on the musty breezes, catching on white candle flame and fizzing to collapse. Sawdust scrunched underfoot, newly hacked wood supports and beams surrounding him, obstacle, false perspective ways, sending out giant blooming splinters.

Roaches, polished chestnut segmented, burrowed furtively in and out of the walls. Kattar rushed like a hunchback, shoving a path through, that felt like it was closing, both around him and wherever the EXIT was. Poles woke up from the floor, disinterred and prehistoric, cracked cartilage scaffolding. He scooted between them, dodging, feeling his way under the dingy light, growing gloomier, tucking his poorly palm to himself tighter, the air teaming with the shriek of felled planks.

He arrived at the very back of the backstage, where the sawn timber made a step down to a dark opening. Kattar limped through, a meshy material parting like a mosquito veil.

Insect zappers lined the walls of a hallway, acting in the place of lamps, their electric blue luminance ruffled by the singing flies bashing themselves in rapture. He walked forwards, a little unsteady, a fly whizz ear flyby nearly tripping him up. They were near his mouth.

He turned a corner and a floor opened up. This one windowless, plastered white wall, decorated with friezes and moulded pillars. A banqueting table filled the length of the floor, every seat taken by animated people, intent in their voices, debate in the gesticulations, listening tilts, acquiescing nods, remonstrating fingers and declarative looks, black tie, power evening wear, unbuttoned after the meal had been taken away, rowdy politeness, the etiquette of game theory, body language and bantering for position. Deep scars striped most faces, other faces with slashed red gashes across them, blood running in trickles onto haute couture satin lace and white shirts underneath suits understated for status. A woman with angelic curls, wrapped in conversation, spoke quickly, her jaw partially excised from one side and flopping about wildly, blood spray garnishing the scarred and drawn face of her dinner companion. The man next along was without his scalp, a scarlet tonsure dribbling crimson streamlets over his features. As the man lifted a lustrous goblet he revealed a hand with half its flesh removed, and what remained appearing gangrenous and veiny.

A lady farther along beckoned to Kattar, waving a sparkling purse his way. No one else had seemed to have noticed his presence. Kattar walked along the chattering table, throat dry, head pounding, legs heavy. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t know what to do.

Up closer she was like the rest, her tanned skin draping from a malnourished frame, some layers of skin coming away in fragile sheets, splitting like wet tissue. The man sitting to her left leant forwards and his brain fell out onto the white tablecloth, gentle splash-back raining over the guests opposite. The talk, all the words, bandied to fill the floor, one moment a recognisable phrasing revealed in the cacophony, the next moment it disappearing to become part of the symphonic din. Several of the dinner guests shoved long pins into their voice boxes, rooting about as if tuning their speech.

The woman coughed, jowls shuddering. “Could you do me a favour, dear boy?” she said. Her voice was hoarse and haughty, her swamp green eyes surrounded by scleras the yellow of a public toilet porcelain urinal. She sneezed and pink mush slid down her philtrum, which she then licked away with a quick and pointy tongue. “I’m quite stuck here, you see. Can’t leave until the big guy shows, and lord knows when he’ll grace us with his presence.” She used her purse and motioned to the chair at the far head of the table, difficult to make out under the troubling candelabra light but definitely empty. “I’ve got a gift for him. Had to sacrifice many cairn bairns to get my claws on it. You look like you’ve got fresh legs. All you need to do is take it to the top of the table for me. I’m worried that if I stood up now I’d come something of a cropper, having had more than my share of nectar. I’m a bit sloshed, I’m afraid.” She giggled, and coquettishly gazed downwards to her lap. Where her legs tucked underneath and met the tablecloth her dress draped over her wasted thighs, nothing but bone. She opened her purse and rummaged clumsily inside, plunging her hand in to an extent which was impossible. Kattar moved, hoping to escape her while her attention was solely on her purse. “Ah ha!” she said, following with a triumphant fleeting wretch. She plucked a pinprick of light from the purse. It shone like a glowing dandelion seed, the tip of a magic wand, candlelight without gravity. “Hold out your hands, like a cup,” she said, and placed the softly radiant ball onto his met palms. He felt as if he held the sun and one clap could destroy all. The tiny spark danced in a low bounce as it settled in his hands. Then it moved by its own will and drew itself across his wound, its warmth permeating the welts and scratches. The ripeness of hurt and decay withered at its touch until his palm sat relieved and unblemished.

“Hmm, powerful little star, isn’t it?” she said. “You must be close to the outside for it to have been able to heal you like that. You look new.” Her eyes glistened. “How long have you been here?”

“I—“ Kattar stumbled. “I’m not sure.”

She laughed, low. “No one is, not now. The night is getting on. Take it and leave it on his chair would you dear? He’ll be sure to see it there, and if he fails to, well, he’ll sit on it and it will be a nice surprise. He needs to swallow it one way or another and from what I’ve heard he’s not one to be picky about which orifice he chooses to use to do so.”

Katter plodded along, keeping a fair distance, trying to be inconspicuous, carrying the tiny spark gently, afraid some mean wind would steal it in a breath. The chair at the table’s head was wider than the others, with sturdy armrests and worn wood. He approached and bent, ready to deliver the star.

The person sitting at the end of the table row nearest to him turned to face Kattar. The man displayed deformity, his face scooped away from beneath his eyes, a gristly blood cave which extended to his neck, itself scraped of its windpipe, attached with nerve and neck bone only. A voice came from the man, displaced, as if thrown by someone else. “What do you think you’re doing?” it said.

Kattar halted, the star glowing for all to see on his outstretched palm.

“You can’t put that there,” the man’s voice said, “not if you know what’s good for you.”

“It’s a gift.” Kattar’s voice shook. “From the lady, down there.”

“That’s irrelevant. I say you are making the wrong move, sonny.” The man reached underneath the table and retrieved a heavy bolt gun. Multitudes of voices amplified, chittering and guttural, choral and wasted multilingual. He pointed the bolt gun at Kattar. “Step closer and push your head against the end. Don’t worry, I won’t release myself on you. You aren’t my kind of cattle. I want to see how serious you are, that’s all.”

Kattar moved away, one step.

“I thought so.” The man and his voice swam underneath the noise of the room, clear amid the ramblings. “Eat it,” he said, “Yum it up, or I’ll chase you with this forever.” He waved the bolt gun around playfully, laughter lighting his eyes above the raw hole below. “The star, consume it.”

Hand twitched and star fell, the shining orb settling to rest on the wide arm of the head chair.

“You are a scaredy one.” The voice tapped his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Tell you what, you give me some entertainment and we’ll call it quits.” He grabbed the bolt gun and thrust it toward Kattar. “Pick one, someone, anyone. Off them, and I’ll ignore you. Look at these wretched folks, you’ll be doing one of my fellow guests a favour. This evening never ends.” The voice sat stilly, his eyes cold. “This is your last chance, there won’t be another. If you don’t take this offer I’m coming for you, and I won’t relent, I don’t tire, you’ll be my obsession, I’ll know you better than you know yourself, and when I’ve used you up I’ll cut you out of this world in a protracted torturous descent. I’ll send you back down, you have my word on that. No exits for you.”

Laughter and cheer flowed to the rafters, the clinking of toasts, sanguine revelry, loosened clothing, kicked off shoes. Kattar lifted the bolt gun, examining it, as if if he could figure the object out his situation could transform.

The voice sat pensive, pinioning the room to follow Kattar’s travels to the rear of the guests opposite, them near riotous and flirtatious, in oblivion and abandon. Kattar stopped and raised the gun to the back of the skull of a squat man, silver haired and tipsy, without ears, blood leaked to a thick tar around his neck, nearly asleep from intoxication in the mayhem. He won’t know what hit him. Macabre little show, no harm in playing along. The ticket to the EXIT.

The release. Skull fragments plunged and tore, the man tilted his dead weight onto the floor and rolled underneath the table. Kattar dropped the bolt gun in the recoil and it bounced and broke, clanging and thumping. The voice chuckled low and satisfied, the only guest to notice, the others lost to some other script.

“The way out is behind you,” the voice said. “It’s not the exit, just a doorway.”

Kattar turned his head to see a corner in the white walls, and a short tunnel to a bright lamplit strawberry gold door.

The star hovered up and glided forwards, humming over the table, rising mothlike over the decaying heads of the guests, above the strangulated blooms and withered vines placed in decoration, amid the scent of spilled wine and meaty leftovers, sweet rotting fancies, plucked dying fruit and moulding nuts, laughter ejected sputum and tears of pus.

The woman who had entrusted Kattar with the star reached her bony arms onto the table, attempting to drag herself atop it, dry heaving lungs popping with pleurisy, eyes wide and fixed on the travelling light. She let out a cry, loud, high frequency. “He’s not been invited,” she said, her head wobbling frantically as her eyes searched the room. Her vision impaired, she missed the sight of Kattar, but he sensed who her eyes were seeking. “He’s one of the riffraff and he’s bought his way out. The dancing star healed him. I should’ve raised the alarm then my friends, goddammit to hell! I was too concerned with ensuring my gift find its way to the chairman. It’s not fair, I tell you! He’s freed the star with a sacrifice, little shit. Where is he? Someone stop him from leaving. One of us could go in his place. Rip him up, let the first to feast get their ticket out of here!” A howl erupted from the throng, dilapidated bodies moving in ravenous syncopation, fighting with their frailty, falling from their seats, flesh sloughing from limbs shocked by activity, skin detracting from frame, clothes sacks for ghoulish innards.

The star halted above the table, its light fluctuating in intensity. Waves of glowing mists exuded from its flickering centre, flowing outwards in nebulous flowerings. Each guest paused, forgetting Kattar, and turned to stare at the light, their faces enraptured with dawning terror. The star pulsated sending a shockwave through its swirling golden plasma surround. Hysteria swept the room, broken people crawled from their seats, every hand and effort directed away from the morphing star, scrabbling weakly along the floor, staggering on wasted legs, using each other as a means to clamber, stepping on bone and sinew, crushing their acquaintances in the rush to flee.

A crack from deep within the light resounded over the room, and every person froze. From inside the light came a gloop, primordial and physical. Of the body. It grew and poured from an unknown space, into the air to multiply and take shape. The atmosphere near it distorted like a heat haze, the spectral material appearing to use the tension it created by interacting with this warping air to forge itself into being. A vicious snap of energy and a figure was discernible, floating in a stately bob above the tabletop. It wailed as it pulled itself into the room, from its veil, its stomping ground beyond the rules, into the cage of existence, a binding torture. Kattar felt its bottomless anger, its resentment, its violence and chaotic lust.

The man with the voice stood up, breaking the submission to the vision. “It’s him,” he cried from his hole, “Come to deliver us! Wayfarer here at last.”

Down the row, the woman, halfway on the table, half dragged away from her disintegrating legs, clutched at her breasts. “You wanted this!” She raised her wilted arm and pointed a trembling finger at the voice. “You tricked the boy. Now none of us have a chance. Bastard. You’ve no right. No right!”

“Shut up Agatha,” the voice snapped back, “Someone had to end this damn show.”

“But you’ve interrupted his walk,” she said, and gasped, “We will never be forgiven. You’ve set something in motion. There’s no going back, for any of us. It’s begun.”

The figure above the table, Mr Wayfarer in summoning, contorted with the pangs of birth, dressed in a dirty sackcloth shroud littered with tatty holes, through which there were glimpses of a filthy hair shirt, writhing with shiny lice and bulging ticks. A low thrum pulsed the room and the air shuddered. Kattar tried to blink it away but it increased its frequency, his vision blurring, the sight of Wayfarer and the soul bedraggled guests wandering in his gaze. Flies in a writhing mist entered from the adjacent hallway, the bug zappers dead, releasing them to swarm. Buzzing over the guests in a torrent, soon the room seethed with the attraction to rot. Lucidity infrequent, he stumbled backwards, to the remembered location of the door in gold. The warm light of its direction streamed into his eyesight. Behind him a scream erupted, only to fade as if ripped asunder, and then replaced by another and another, each exalting the next. He felt his bowels move, his gut react to the stink of stale blood and old flesh. Reaching, part blind, disorientated, the shine of gold became his guide, and he sunk towards it, the cool metal a saviour to the touch. He tried the door and it opened.

sep

A rush of air, mistral, pushed him through the gold. Backstage again. This time high on some cobbled together stairs that hung beneath him and spiralled down. Every step downwards deflated him, forced into retreat, sent the wrong way, the EXIT a diminishing prospect. He took the twisty descent, swallowing the backward move, resolving to accept the detour. Nothing but a setback. Was it because he released the bolt? Too late.

The haphazard placing of the splintering planks had been rectified in his absence. At first he considered that he’d entered another theatre entirely, the areas so ordered and spotless. Then he approached the power box, with its familiar markings and worn stickers, and his return was confirmed. He rounded the partition from backstage to centre, a spotlight trained on one of the chairs in the middle of an audience row out in front of him. The chair was empty.

After-hours, when everyone has seen their play, and the deadening night whisks them along their streets, scooted by the hands they’ve invented to cradle the tired body, that body facing its day, a construction scaffolded with tenuous delusion and truth burning so bright its near impossible. Back to their shaky safe places, where the acts transfigure in dream. You talk in your sleep.

And I hear you.

ok

Sunlight flooded the floor, the city out in expanse before him, through every pane, the glass so clear the light penetrated untouched to splay its rays across the office carpet.

The floor was empty but for a strange device placed at its centre, away from the edge, turned towards the view. An iron lung, gently hissing its mechanics.

Kattar walked through the sunshine, the warmth enough to have compelled him to weep if he’d been alone. As he approached the man who was held inside the cylinder he despaired of ever leaving the tower. The place had exhausted him and he’d only climbed halfway up.

“Please, don’t be alarmed,” the man in the iron lung said, “this is only a temporary measure. What brings you here today? I’ve lost track of my itinerary. Do we have an appointment prior arranged? I have to warn you that I may not be able to fulfil my side of things today. As you can see, I’m not my usual self.” The man winked, his lupine grey-blue eyes surprisingly healthy and examining Kattar vigorously.

Kattar, face blank, breathed shallow. “I’m looking for the exit,” he said, mumbling his words, every syllable an effort.

The drum tinkled with tiny depth charges, deep sea echoes pumping breath, inflating the bladder. “Do you even know who I am?” the man in the iron lung said, “Or why you are here? You don’t look very well.”

Bit rich, Kattar thought. Muteness reigned.

“I’m the chairman.”

Of course you are.

“Now, what’s your biznez?”

Kattar fumbled with the passcard, which at some unremembered point he’d pushed deep into his pocket. “There was an explosion. Outside the building.”

“Yeah, I know. Saw the smoke. No trace of it now. Clear skies. You seen that blue? Take a gander over there. I’d look up if I were you, not down, my friend.”

The city was juggernaut. Kattar went to the glass wall—a section away from direct sunlight, rays left to stream into the room from another side. From shade the sun smothered the skyscrapers in a vomity poultice. Septic diamond spires making sweet romance with joss paper. Oxymoronic foundations liquidising self-actualised boardrooms before a visit to the haberdasher. Slam the brakes. White heat window scales radiating blisters and hackneyed tycoons. Penthouse. Is next to godliness. The very middle view here, Kattar felt dizzy.

“Beautiful day.” The chairman talked from behind him. Kattar didn’t turn, kept looking out, let him talk. “I feel like saying something relatable, but words fail me.” He laughed, a hacking titter which turned into a cough and then a desperate struggle for breath. Kattar stared out over the city, to beyond its outskirts, the unformed reaches, to yards under open white skies, the horizon line a brutal wish and only real for those tightroping along it. The chairman normalised his breathing, sniffing, swallowing. “You’re an innocent. I can see that straight away,” he said, “One of the perks of my position. I’m the only one who has the ability to do that. You’ve witnessed something. What have you seen that’s got you down, son? Was it the explosion?”

“No.” Kattar sat on the tough office carpet, slumping his arms, everything heavy. “Well, not just that. I’m looking for the exit, but I can’t find any exit signs. I had to go back down. There was no choice. But bad shit happened. Do you know someone called Anna? She works here. I promised I’d find her.”

“Anna. I understand why you want her. She’s an innocent too.”

“I don’t know her. Someone on one of the lower floors needs her and I said I’d help. If I had time.”

The chairman chuckled grimly, stopping himself in remembrance of the triggering of his previous fit. “What did you see, down there?”

Kattar sighed, at a loss. “Mr Wayfarer.”

“Ah, so he’s still treading these halls. Relentless. Only concerned with dustsceawung. Shook his previous residence to the ground in a rage.”

“He’s angry.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. I knew him, long ago, before he fully became what he is now. I saw it coming. He was always a deluded fellow, bubble-headed and treacherous, but the situation escalated when the way he spoke started to gradually morph. Then I pushed him into the walls. I was enraged about something, I can’t remember what it was now, but predominantly I was scared and needed an excuse to banish him. So I tried to get rid of him, but my efforts backfired. He exists between things now. I gave him a method perfect for eluding me. Besides, he knows that if he eliminates me the tower will demand balance, or fall, and it will seek that equilibrium by ensnaring and removing him. And for now it seems self interest has kept him from coming for me. Let’s face it, I’m in no position to challenge him if he should attempt to eradicate me. I’ve discovered it’s a pattern that repeats. Wherever he goes, he degenerates, installs havoc and destruction, then leaves the rubble, the process reinvigorating him. What he does is parasitic, but it’s sanctioned by his targets. There are no victims behind glass. He’s going to try to get to me soon though. I can feel it. He’s losing his will for survival. All he’ll be is a whirlwind of disgust and want.”

“A tiny light—a star, they called it—caused him to appear. Then he destroyed everyone at the table.”

“Not the banquet!” The chairman spluttered and coughed. “I feel doubly heinous for keeping them waiting now.” He went quiet, the low pumping of his machine ticking over. “This star—did it move of its own accord?”

“It floated above the table and Mr Wayfarer somehow came out of it. It’s difficult to describe.” Kattar raised his hand to his face, seeking the lines on his palm with bleary eyes. “When I held it, it healed me. I had scratches on my hand, but there’s no trace of any injury now. That’s when they knew I wasn’t one of them.”

“The rules are different for you and me. We’re the top and the bottom. They exist in-between, and they know it. That star can heal me too.”

“You think so?” Kattar turned his head to face the chairman.

“I know so. Help me out. Get me to the banqueting table.”

“You’re crazy. Mr Wayfarer is there. I just left that room and it was in chaos.”

“You don’t have to come with me. I need you to push me into the elevator. The tower will know where to take me.”

“Won’t he kill you too?”

The chairman smiled. “Mr Wayfarer gets us all. I’m already dead, just like all those fools. If he’s as angry as you say he is then he’s already sweeping through the building, his lust for destruction his only release. We’ll feel the ramifications soon enough. He’ll undermine the fabric, tear through girders, tilt the tower until it falls. It was a matter of time. I think you can agree that we both need our exits as soon as possible. My best chance of walking out of here is that dancing star. It will still be there. He would’ve abandoned it in his tantrum, and he wouldn’t’ve left anybody else behind to claim it. It’s mine.” Sunlight spilt, a high cloud passing in front of the sun out of sight up above, sending a fan of rays in a streamer hitting the tower behind the chairman, hot light like reentry, creating a phosphorescing frame around the iron lung in silhouette and his domed head peeking out from one end.

“Get Anna to me and I’ll push you. Otherwise you can stay there.” Kattar met the chairman’s gaze. He wanted to feel ashamed. The chairman wasn’t a bad guy, was he? He didn’t seem much of anything.

“Alright. I would’ve called on her anyway, but I understand your need for give and take.” The chairman closed his eyes, moved into deep concentration. Lights reflected onto his face, scrolling, blocks of squares, fuzzy icons, backwards text. He blinked, with intent, some blinks flickering, some longer, a pattern. An instruction. The lights faded out.

The chairman opened his eyes, staring blankly. “She was hiding somewhere down below. You must’ve missed her. If she’s evaded Mr Wayfarer until now there was little hope in you discovering where she was. She’s coming up in the elevator, the one you need to deliver me to.”

Kattar stood. “Thank you.”

“We’ve got to take our chances. You take every one you are given. This isn’t the rehearsal.”

The chairman’s head pointed towards the elevator, floor indicator lights showing the swiftness of the ascent. So many floors up. It didn’t feel so high.

“Get her to help you push this thing when she gets here. It’s a bastard to move.”

“Don’t you need to be plugged in or something?”

“It’s all self-contained.” The chairman’s wheezing increased in pronouncement.

A ding reverberated around the floor, cutting the air, touching the glass surround. The elevator doors opened and a young woman stepped out warily, office wear as uniform, hair swept back and restrained, eyes travelling the floor to assess her surroundings, to check that Wayfarer was otherwise engaged. Her demeanour couldn’t hide who she was, the outline of her frame in motion one he’d replayed in his mind over and over. His Anna from all those years ago. The city had stolen her away back then, her ambitions sent her to climb the bustle with the rats. She was the one who was rosebud in memory, his hurt was nothing because she was first and his best shot. He’d buried himself in order to bless her on her way and stayed in a coffin suit ever since.

She looked at him, like he was strange and powerful, his presence an astounding mystery, a play on the surface of the planet, such a step outside time.

“Anna,” he said, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Don’t stand there like fools,” the chairman said, “Get me in the elevator before we miss it.”

Kattar moved to grasp the iron lung near the rear of the machine. Anna silently walked to the opposite side and they pushed the chairman between the elevator doors and inside.

“How will you get to the star? It was above the table the last I saw. You’ll need someone to wheel you into the room.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the chairman said as the elevator began to close, “You’ve seen how it can travel. The doors will open and my gift will fly to me!” He laughed and descended into a coughing fit as the doors neatly closed and silenced him.

Then there was Anna. Every cell in her body had renewed itself since he last saw her, felt her, but everything was monument, a ship unmistakable.

He had to tell her the story. “I was looking for you. I mean, I was looking for someone called Anna. I didn’t connect. Would never have dreamt. The woman, on the lower floor, she’s hurt, very badly, but still alive. She thinks that you believe she’s dead, that Mr Wayfarer got her. In a way he did. She’s dying. There’s no hope for her. Her injuries—it’s not pleasant. Impossible she’s still alive. But she is. She said to me ‘I won’t die.’ Maybe she’s dead already, I don’t know. But she wants me to tell you she understands. Why you ran. And that, if you can, she wants you to go back, to be with her. She suffers. You’re her friend, she said. She said that you’d want to know, to be given the option. From what I understood of her, she won’t blame you if you don’t go back.”

“Kattar. What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“I work here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “After all the melodrama about me leaving for the city, you did the same.” Nodding, she smiled puzzled and wide.

“It wasn’t my choice. Mum had to move after Dad died. We have family here. I told you that, do you remember? I said I’d come to stay with my cousin, so I could see you.”

Her eyes fell. “Yeah, I remember now.”

Eyes lifted to his, and a tiny nod of affirmation stopped them both. “How come I’ve never seen you? I can’t believe you’ve been in this building and our paths haven’t crossed,” she said.

“I stay in the background. If no one notices me then it’s been a good day. I don’t look up much so I wouldn’t see you either.”

“It’s funny though.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

naŭ

“Where is she?”

“She’s in an office. I got the impression it was hers. She gave me a passcard so I could gain access to the higher levels.”

“I should go back.”

“I’m heading for the exit. Anna, you could come with me, get out of here. I’m sure she wouldn’t blame you.”

“We both know what I’ll do.”

“Yes, we do.”

dek

Anna took a few paces forward, passing Kattar, up to the glass that held the open city before them. She stopped on the shady side of the tower and placed her palm to the pane, the thickness of the glass strange in transparency, a slice caught clear, cloak of invisibility for the wasted day. “Give me the card,” she said.

He did so and she placed it edgewise onto the pane, as he had done when he’d used it before to open the door. And just as then, she dragged the passcard along a line downwards, leaving a trail of white heat and blue vapour. She met the end and the glass cracked.

The cracks progressed slowly, fanning outwards, silver shards flowing and forking. A few shards fell free, silently taken, letting in the roar of the winds buffeting the tower. “This way is outside. Mr Wayfarer can’t get to us here. We are only in danger if he brings the tower down. Then he’ll take us with him.”

“Anna. We can’t go out there.”

“Wait. I’ve called it. We’ve just got to have patience.”

Kattar glanced at the city, dead in aspect, unworthy of peripheral acknowledgement with her in the room, ectopic obelisks so soon ruins, already relics of thought. Bizarre creatures sat in the saddle, huddled in chambers. Now there was no pretence the fun had gone. The treadmill had knocked them on the shoulder too, caught up with them, of their own making. So all that was left was to tear it all to pieces, maybe start again if the whim took them, resurrect the plaything for gutterdogs. He looked at her, at her movements, her gait. She held herself the same.

An elevator rose from the exterior, sparkling, made of glass, the sides fastened with metal joins. “I’ve not seen it before, only heard about it. Truth is I wasn’t sure that your passcard had high enough clearance. Looks like we’re lucky.”

The doors silently opened, and they stepped through the pane in front of them, through the cracks, to the outside, where Wayfarer couldn’t follow. Anna pushed the single button, large and red, making it glow.

They descended silently, the enclosed space insulating them from the violence of the winds swirling around the building. “How will it know where to stop?” Kattar said.

“I don’t know. The building knows things. Lately everyone’s been noticing it’s taking over. Before, it worked for us, but now it’s willing what happens. I think it’s Mr Wayfarer, but I can’t be sure.”

“I know you said you won’t come with me, but promise that if when we get to the office floor and your friend is dead, or not there at all, you’ll give up on this place and we’ll both get to the exit. It makes no sense for you to stay here, Anna.”

She folded her arms and leaned back, resting her weight on the rear glass. The glass was so clear it raised Kattar’s anxiety for her, as he imagined her body falling straight through and tumbling away. “Alright,” she said, quietly. “You stay in the elevator. I want you protected from Mr Wayfarer whatever happens. You won’t follow me onto the floor. You understand? That’s the deal. You stay here. I’ll go to the office and find out if she’s still there. If I shut the door behind me then it means she’s still alive and I’m going to stay with her. If she’s dead or missing I’ll come back to the elevator. I mean it—you stay here or you are leaving on your own. I’ll make my own way out if I have to.”

“It’s hard for me to agree to that.”

“I know. I don’t take it lightly. Neither should you.”

“Then I won’t. I’ll stay here. You have my word.”

“You always did your best to keep your word. I’ve never forgotten that about you.”

Never had he wished someone more dead.

dek unu

They made time a beggar, kissed like all was love and love was all that was.

“There’s something else,” Kattar said. “Maybe this will help you somehow. I’ve been shown a name, Espe. I think it’s a clue, a way to find the exit.”

“Jesus. Kattar, if you’ve been told that name it means you’ve been summoned. You are already on your way. The tower will ensure you are taken to him. It’s the name of the child. He has his own floor, and no one sees him unless he calls. I won’t be able to find him, not without an invitation. You go and meet with the brat, but be careful. Not all those he summons come back, and there’s no way of knowing if that’s because they’ve been shown their desired exit, or otherwise.”

“So he’s some sort of gatekeeper?”

“Nobody knows what he is, only that he’s Esperanto.”

dek du

Anna left him and walked out onto the floor into the quiet hum of office space. There were no cries from the woman who wouldn’t die, the place ticking over to eternity. She turned into the office, out of sight, disappeared. He didn’t even hope—he knew the tower would offer him no consolations. The door to the office closed and he sunk to the panel, pressing the button, uncaring where it would serve him up.

Safe from Mr Wayfarer he took the opportunity to lower his guard. As the machine carried him higher, he got to his knees and planted his hands on the glass, a chance to take in the magnificence of the city without the tower’s breath on his neck. The ding was coming, where he’d have to face the floors and halls, and Mr Wayfarer himself if his luck ran out. The passcard lay next to him, or what remained of it. Anna must’ve dropped it, not that it mattered as it was in pieces, charred and fractured. Maybe the lift would travel to the apex and an EXIT sign. That was what would happen if all was right with the world, if justice stacked up. With no passcard, his thin hope for access was frayed. He bent and lifted the remaining pieces, putting them in his pocket.

The elevator softly bumped its ascent. Idolators in stipendium, small arms fire from presidential suites, falling men wearing kryptonite necklaces, vomiting milk and honey for mass scaphism, trickling down to fester the roads. The delirium was absolute, integral to the boom, the arteries of the new stimulant paradise. All was incendiary now, the flow of the bang. Ride it or be crushed to nothing, but you can’t force a bang back inside its bomb.

A city to make him nauseous, his Rome under glorious golden light, the blood seeped into the dust.

Choral voices lifted the elevator. They came on the wind, cries of agitation, want, rage, revenge and violence. Bitter and remorseless, of every language, of nonsense and babbling, of eloquence and rationalism, of populism and bandwagoning, of group therapy and interventions, of flimflamming and crock. Rapacious, they threatened to unsteady the elevator, the force of discontent in the voices enough to pummel the sides and send it swaying in its climb. Kattar retreated to the nook beside the door, pressing the button briskly and repeatedly in a vain effort to encourage the elevator towards its destination unknown.

At last the voices whirled away, taken on gusts out over the city, the play of the updrafts fortuitously leading them in a different direction. The elevator slowed. He’d travelled to his highest survey of the city yet, perhaps two-thirds up. A haze nestled the skyscrapers, wispy clouds hanging low speeding on the high breezes. If he ever did make it to the EXIT, he’d leave this place forever.

The ding.

He fell out into a shadow place, the brightness behind him swallowed up by the closing of the elevator doors. Out of the black came the theatre, his entrance just like the first time, when he’d stepped in from out of the stairwell.

He staggered about a bit, his bearings making themselves known reluctantly. The stage drew his gaze instantly. Decorated in mockup, it had been fitted out in faithful replica of the dark hallway of the lower floor, where the suited man had held his arm and demanded his reciprocal stare and Kattar had given his word. Here, the hallway appeared sideways on, with one wall vanished to enable its length to be viewed. The vibrant colour of the old bobbling carpet streaked from one side of the stage floor to the other, contrasting with the stagnating and diffuse light, constituting mostly slowly wandering dust particles. Stage lights created an insular and gloomy sheen along the corridor, the atmosphere within thick and grungy.  The door by which he’d entered the hallway the first time sat at the right end of the scene: the door the suited man had told him to return through if he didn’t want to meet Mr Wayfarer, the door that would lead to the theatre and the dark. Kattar glanced across the theatre to where he’d found that door the first time—the wall opposite to the original entrance to the theatre, the one he’d rushed through to escape the fight. Back on the stage, the door at the other end of the hallway, to the left, was closed. That hulking wooden door that had led him to the office floor and the woman who wouldn’t die. It scared and angered him now, all because it had opened to the place where he’d found that poor woman, and because of her Anna hadn’t come with him. Also true that he would never have known to ask for Anna if he’d not spoken to the woman who wouldn’t die.

The door on the stage, the right door, was open, a dark void within. A small hand emerged from shadow at its bottom, fingers reaching along the floor at the entrance to the hallway. Another hand joined it, pulling ahead a short way further, struggling to grip at the gaudy carpet, fingers straining. The hands moved over one another until a head followed them, twisted with the efforts of dragging the body behind into the hallway. It was the suited man coming out of the black, the black he’d advised Kattar to head to, that may save him, or perhaps them both, from Wayfarer and doom. The suited man pulled his withered body along the burned orange and blood scarlet pathway, pain contorting his features, his face and neck pale, bulging with blue veins. The sound of his breaths reverberated around the auditorium, flue with tongue and spittle tacked drying mouth with wheeze. His frailty was repellant.

With a final spurt of effort he heaved his stomach to the centre of the carpet on the stage. His face fell flat into the weaves, paralysed with exhaustion, not even the energy to tilt to allow easier breaths. Instead he inhaled the repugnant fibres, flattening his body over the location of where the trapdoor had been, where the Queen of Worms had made her entrance. Her spirit effigy hung invisibly over the scene. The suit draped over him like a mourning blanket. It hadn’t fit him for a long time.

The suited man went quiet. Impossible to tell if he was breathing or not, if he’d died right there or was building the strength for his next move.

He lifted his face, shaky neck, his eyes searching the empty seats. Kattar intuited that the suited man couldn’t see well, until the suited man reached down to his side and into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled a silver pistol, the shiny barrel glowing under the murky stage lights.

“Silly of you to come back here,” the suited man said, and pointed the pistol at Kattar. “Especially when you’ve no intention of keeping your word. Don’t deny it, we’re both too ugly to lie to each other like that.”

“Don’t be hasty.” Kattar froze, his posture like an anti-hero caught in the headlights. “I’ve not had the chance to get you any help. I said I’d try—no promises remember?”

“Your word is for shit.” The suited man squeezed a shot loose that missed Kattar wildly, the weakness in the man meaning his aim was guesswork.

The suited man paused and looked at the trembling pistol, laughing bitterly. “Jesus, I’m really messed up.”

Kattar glanced again at the wall where he’d discovered the door to the hallway the first time, this time the shady outline of a door visible in the murk. The suited man cottoned on to Kattar’s intentions. “Don’t you move,” he said, “Do you think I’ve got no fight left in me? I still want out of this place. Where’s my exit, huh?” He waved the pistol around, limply. “Give me your word again, so you can break it double.”

“It’s like you want me to break my word. The situation hasn’t changed sir. If you’ve been thinking otherwise then that’s on you. I’ll send someone back for you, you have my word.”

“There it is!” He let off another shot, this one closer to the mark, the blaring whine of it shaking Kattar’s innards. Kattar dropped to the ground, crawling along behind the backs of the audience seats, edging towards the shadow door.

“Where’d you go? Come on, out you come. Don’t hide from me, you gave me your word. Help me out. How am I meant to shoot you when you are hiding from me? You want an exit? I’ll give you one.” Boom, boom, over Kattar’s head. Boom through the back of the seat just behind him, fluff and stuffing shot out in a puff.

Kattar crouched further down, almost on his belly, using his elbows and knees to propel himself towards the door. He’d have to be quick, use the cover of dark to reach up to find the handle and get out. Before the suited man would clock his figure in the shadows. If he could, if the door was real.

“This is no fun. You traitor. You’ll get yours even if I’m not the one to give it to you.”

Kattar rolled onto his back, struck motionless by a howling sound, so close he shrunk away from it, expecting someone to be the breath in his ear.

The sound of the suited man dropping his pistol echoed, as if shocked, responding to the appearance of the howling also. “He’s coming!” he cried. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

Kattar fought the howl, ringing in a shriek, disabling in its decibels, and returned to his crawl, blindly heading for the shadows. Cries of frustration interrupted the noise as the volume lessened, the suited man’s scrabblings intermingling with the frequencies. Mr Wayfarer on his way, no mistaking.

The howl’s volume descended sequentially, at pace with a plod. He’d returned to his walk, apropos to his nature.

Kattar lost his place in the dark, flailing around for an anchor, his hand hitting a chair. Unthinking, he dragged himself up, the pain of the sound overriding his fear for his life. The scene moved on, he’d stepped outside, now it was the suited man centre stage. He peeped over the back of the chair.

The suited man hadn’t got very far, his sinews straining to heave his wasted frame away, towards the left door, the way to the office, where there would be the woman who wouldn’t die, and perhaps Anna too, if this was now, and not just a rerun. Where are your nooks and crannies now? Your crawlspace and underbelly?

Mr Wayfarer pushed out of the black of the right door, the stage theatre door, this theatre, where the suited man had said to run to, where Mr Wayfarer wouldn’t go, and yet he’d been here, come out of the theatre, the dark receding from him, like a bacteria withering from a toxin. The face couldn’t be registered fully, never pinned down by sight, the closest estimation obtained by glancing slightly away from it. Pale flesh, post-op shiny, swollen with lifeless gases, eyeless, features a skin smudge, a scar, all mouth, foetus posture, treading, kneading the air with his wail.

The voice went so far away.

Up to the suited man, his cries brutal, throaty, facing his truth. No fun.

Kattar felt strangely protected, as if the act of observing excluded him from involvement. His role was the witness. Screw that. He bolted for the shadow door, praying like a fool, acolyte of survival instinct. His advantage was that he wasn’t the centre of attention.

The suited man screamed in fits that became gargles, raspy struggles, floundering higher, soaring to the rafters. Make him sing, Mr Wayfarer.

Make him sing.

The door in shadow was a mock, a simulated doorframe. Kattar dug his nails into the flimsy plaster, which rained away in flaky chunks. If the noise died anymore he’d be in trouble, Mr Wayfarer would be turning his attentions and heading his way. Was all silence when he was upon you?

He glanced at the stage for a freeze-frame. All was red.

Adrenaline unleashed the last gasp attempt and he severed the door from the wall, hauling it ajar just enough to wriggle his body through. He turned and with strength diminishing to its last twitchy residues, dragged the broken and crumbling fake door back to imperfectly meet the wall.

dek tri

Kattar stepped backwards, eyes intensely scanning the outline of the resting simulated door. It would be no barrier to My Wayfarer if he should choose to follow. No lock to be had, only crumbling plaster around the edges, broken and uneven now, letting the light through.

The tangled light.

He flinched against the air, fitting into sweats, turning his back to the fake doorway, leaning his weight against it to block the way. All strength had left him. If Mr Wayfarer knocked at the door, he’d push Kattar over with the slightest thud.

Orange flickering striptease down the walls. The place was magma. Waves of glancing upright flame. Cuboid boulders cracked with smouldering red fissures. Another floor, this time closed to the world, encased in vertical brooks of glowing fire. Female forms writhed in and out of the walls, burning as the flowing lava sculpted them, sometimes whole-bodied, sometimes only glimpses of parts, sensuous and fleeting, melting to return to the fire. Occasionally a face would cohere, roll in the heat, open mouthed, made of white flame, a spectral cry barely there, consumed by the churning, the dark hum of liquid fire.

Figures made of flame wandered the floor over black tiles and between desk-sized boulders. Towards the farthest end of the floor one of the burning figures lay on a magma desk, letting out a scream, waving arms dementedly as if someone had their frame pinned down, but no one else was there.

A tall burning figure walked towards Kattar, then started to push a black desk along the dark tiles in his direction. It screeched along, leaving bright scratch trails. Polished tiles mirrored the flame people walking above, the glass world beneath catching the figures in fire, cooling them in reflection. Kattar gazed into the black glass beneath his feet, the endless writhing flame walls receding. A chasm of bottomless nothing. Kattar stepped aside and the tall burning man wedged the dark desk up against the faux doorway, then wandered off dreamily. It didn’t seem like enough protection, but Kattar felt better anyway.

Kattar strode a few paces forwards, unknowing if the figures even registered his presence. They moved as if locked away, oblivious to anything but their place on the floor. The tall burning man had appeared as if responding to the environment, to the intrusion of the fake door, a new entryway that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not in reaction to Kattar’s entrance. Not to him as a person.

The burning people milled on delirious pathways, never intersecting. Sometimes they’d sit for a while, facing the walls, but it was impossible to know if they saw or recognised the streaming fire or not. Kattar’s only heat was from within, from exhaustion and the frantic flee. This place was cold.

He reached out to probe a burning figure as it approached and glided past him, poking at the moving flame as sparks licked around his fingers. It felt like dragging through flour.

Halfway across the floor, equidistant from the corners, he approached a desk. A small ball of fire peeped around the bottom corner of the black boulder. Then it wavered, its ball head a hellish candle flame, paraffin fed. Unlike the other burning people, blue light gleamed around the edge. The small figure shuffled out from behind the smoking boulder. Dressed in a disposable nappy, it was a fleshy toddler from the neck down, dirtied with soot, and only its head was a flame, the candlepower draining life from the body below it.

“Don’t snuff me, mister,” it said, “I didn’t mean to do it.” The voice was infantile and robotic, like a digital transmission run through an intercom. The candle flame shrank a little, its wispy head withdrawing. Interlacing burn marks decorated the child’s shoulders, scalded by stray spitting sparks, the flame fuelled by the child’s fatty cherub torso. “It’s in my blood. Mummy told me.”

Kattar lowered himself to the fire toddler’s level and rested on one knee. “What did your mummy tell you?”

The toddler shimmied shyly, clasping podgy hands together.

“Come on, you can tell me. What’s your name?”

“Espe,” it said, in a thin weedy voice. “Mummy said that if I spoke properly and clearly that everyone would understand me but now everyone is on fire.”

“I’m sure it’s not your fault. Tell me what happened.”

The fire toddler sniffed, digitally, inside its flame. “Mummy said that I should go and speak to everybody. She said that I was special and that there was a magic way I could talk to everyone. I went up to every desk.” The sniffs rose in volume. “Some people were nice and spoke back to me, but some stared at me and looked away and pretended they didn’t see me. Then I ran away. But I couldn’t find Mummy any more. I went back to the desks but the people were arguing. Then they went on fire.” The fire toddler sobbed, lowering its little candle face. Black oil trickled in tearstains, to be lit up and consumed by the burning flame. “Where’s Mummy?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“You find her!”

“What’s her name?” A burning figure brushed Kattar’s elbow. He flinched as it tickled.

“She’s called lots of things. I can’t remember. I only remember what she told me to do. She wants me to give someone the Fohnemaz.” The fire toddler stood, quieting now. Kattar felt observing eyes on him, coming from inside the candle flame, illusory and scheming.

“Do you want it? It’s heavy.” The fire toddler reached into its disposable nappy and extracted a tiny pole, about the size of a draughtsman’s pencil, but thicker, shiny and black. “It doesn’t smell, I promise.” A pulsating sound accompanied the object’s reveal, but it sounded farther away, somewhere under the floor, subterranean.

“I don’t think I should. You keep it. Your mummy might want it back.”

“No!” The fire toddler stamped a foot. “Mummy will be mad. If you take it she might come back.” It then paused and tilted its head. “Do you have a passcard? I can swap it for a passcard. Then we both have something.”

Kattar shook his head. The passcard had burned away, outside of the building’s influence. All he had were the ashes. However, maybe he’d made a mistake, and this was his chance. “What is that thing?”

“It’s the Fohnemaz,” the fire toddler said, proudly. “Mummy gave it to me to look after. She said it’s a key and that everyone in the world can use it. Which is silly.” The fire toddler giggled, but then stopped. “Don’t tell Mummy I said it was silly, will you.”

Kattar felt around in his pocket and pulled out some tiny charred fragments, still smouldering. “Here.” He offered them to the fire toddler. The child bowed and nudged his flame to suggest Kattar should drop the fragments onto the fiery crown. They fell and fizzled brightly.

As the fire toddler hugged himself and rubbed his stomach something red appeared in his bellybutton. Kattar lowered his head for a closer inspection. Wriggling from the innie was a crimson worm, plump and writhing, projecting itself to explore the air, then retracting.

“Oh,” the fire toddler said. “That’s Twentytwosix. Mummy gave him to me to tell me when Father is coming.”

Kattar looked the child in the face, then jerked to his feet, eyes wild around the floor.

The fire toddler giggled. “Don’t worry. Twentytwosix isn’t saying Father is here—he really wiggles when Father comes. He tells me other things as well. He says that you’ve done a bad thing.”

Kattar gazed at the fire, the voice a digital echo. Transmission received. “Everyone has done bad things.”

“Twentytwosix wouldn’t tell me if it wasn’t really bad. But he says you are nice as well.”

“Oh, really.”

“And that you can be saved.”

“Saved from what?”

“Father, and Mother, and me.”

“Tell Twentytwosix that I appreciate the offer, but I’m doing fine and don’t need any help.”

“He knows how to get out of here. Only Mummy knows the way, but she told him. He won’t tell me, because Mummy doesn’t want me to leave. I have to make everyone understand me. Then I can ask them the way to go.”

The burning figures glided in their perpetual waltz, temporal objectivity a case of restraint. A machine of barbarity, devoid of memory but pregnant with the incitement. This had not always been the way, and the notion struck Kattar as viscerally as a clean tear to the gut.

“Mummy told me a story about a clever doctor who when he was in the war got a very bad wound but instead of dying he chose to use himself as a test, and he treated his own wound and lived a long time with it all open for the world to see. Twentytwosix says that is a lot like you. Everyone sees your wound. But you don’t want people to see so it festers and weeps inside of you, until your blood is nothing but the sick tears the wound has been crying.”

“Look, I just want the way out kid.”

“Twentytwosix might tell you. If you tell me what he says I’ll give you Fohnemaz.” The fire toddler held the object up, presenting it as a profound treasure.

“I told you I don’t want it.”

The child slowly lowered his arms and said, sadly, “Then I won’t get Twentytwosix to tell you.”

Kattar stared ahead, flaming figures moving in and out of his unfocused gaze. He couldn’t stay in this place, could he? Become one of them? They had gone blank but continued to dance with existence. The kid may not be able, or want, to transform him into a burning man anyhow and he could end up cognisant and fleshy, stuck on this floor, forever.

“Alright,” Kattar said, and stooped back down to the fire toddler’s level, “I’ll tell you what he says, I promise.”

“You’ve promised now. If you don’t tell me I’ll be upset and tell Father on you.”

Kattar nodded and cocked an ear near to the child’s stomach and the crimson worm. The worm wiggled and emitted a quiet scratchy sound, followed by a series of grating clicks. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand it,” Kattar said.

“Get closer. Twentytwosix finds it hard to project his voice,” the fire toddler said, a smirk in his tone.

His ear almost touching the waving worm, Kattar listened intently. Amid the clicks a word formed, then another. “It sounds like he’s saying ‘wub wub’.”

The fire toddler giggled loudly and sprightly danced away some steps. “I knew it! Mummy was lying all along! She was only playing tricks. Silly Mummy.”

“What’s wub wub?”

“It’s when nothing makes sense but that’s all that makes sense, like when you’ve lost all your words and all that comes out is noises, but the noises are what is real and true. That’s how we find the way out! I need to stop talking now. You won’t think I’m rude, will you?”

“You do what you have to do to get us to the exit.”

“That’s right. I will.” The fire toddler scurried to Kattar as Kattar once again rose to his feet. “Here,” the child said, and presented the Fohnemaz to Kattar. “You take this now. Remember it’s a key. I don’t think I’ll leave yet, not without Mummy. Father would be alright, but Mummy needs me and will cry if I disappear.” The Fohnemaz shimmered darkly in Kattar’s palm, a low hum emanating from within it. “We need to charge it up now and there’s only one way to do that. It sucks in beautiful voices, the voices of the spheres make it grow. You want to see? It’s my other job here, but this one is fun.”

Kattar nodded and the child reached for his hand, which he gave, the Fohnemaz secured and vibrating softly between their meeting palms.

The walls of fire receded in one corner of the room, an open throat gaping blackness before them. Espe dragged Kattar forward, the child’s tiny steps patting excitedly towards the tunnel entrance. Raw flames licked high around the edges as they passed into the void to be enveloped in a black that retracted like an surprised anus behind them.

In the dark they wandered forwards, the child’s candle lighting the way, though the glow didn’t reach very far. Burnt panels shone in carbonated dimples along the walls, visible only a few feet ahead, ready to tumble their charcoal at the slightest touch. Kattar breathed shallow, the tart smell of old burning repulsing him. The floor was stripped to concrete and scorched as if a torrent of fire had swept it in a rage. He followed the tiny candle head that waved gently side to side as the child walked on toddler legs, bobbing the light like a blink. Water dripped somewhere behind the walls.

The low sound of machinery came from up ahead, growing louder with every footfall until the child wriggled its hand free—leaving the Fohnemaz with Kattar—and rushed its candle along the hallway to illuminate an immolated door. The fire toddler stood and raised its arms, elongating its candle flame until a lick of fire was tall enough to extend its fiery finger to a blackened knocker placed centre doorframe. The stream of fire wrapped itself around the cruciform idol and slammed the body against the door’s surface creating a resonant and deafening succession of bongs.

The door crumbled and the fragments flew away from them, darkly careering into a vast space filled with black fire and tainted metal. Through the outline of the doorway Kattar saw megalithic structures looming in the distance shrouded in acid smoke. Pistons thrusting and cogs turning, oversized mechanics structured as an affront to complexity, their simplicity holding the devil’s best trick. It’s that simple, it really is.

Crow mowed flagellated wings striking vestal bodies in a feather tempest. Down with the squirters there are no reprobate delineators carving out bloodbaths with behoven fratricide. Drown in your tempus fugit you contemporary wraiths, climbing an antediluvian manhole. Every fleapit on the line has its stitch, star carrion plexus prostrates the twitch.

Kattar followed the child into the open field, wincing against the extremity of exposure, the dust and swirling stinks. Rushing between percussive metal, the shrieks of the abrasion jarred his innards. Ears ringing, he caught up to the excited toddler, who skipped from foot to foot, the candle flame buffeted by demonic breezes, lighting up like a matchbox. An idiot laugh came from the toddler’s flame, wilful with ignorance, scatological, simpleton blueprint. It beckoned Kattar with a stumpy arm, small fatty hand waving him on. The way back was on fire.

Between ruinous brickworks they scampered, great rushes of rancid miasma flung at the release of revolving joints, the heaving industry trapped in perpetual thrusts of mutual benefit. Above seemed open to the heavens, clouded in thick putrid mists that hung dryly to choke and smother. Espe led Kattar around a corner, little feet hurrying, voice ejecting the energetic grunts of the dimwit. The child crawled up a set of low steps and onto a platform carved into the side of a thick and crumbling brick construction. Kattar paused, overwhelmed with tiredness, gasping for air after the short jog. He raised his head, now able to take in more of the scene. A parade of figures waited in the low yellow smoke, blackened, stripped of clothing, their skin crisped to a dark crust. They swayed in a queue, apparently benumbed and suspended from all consciousness of their surroundings.

The fire toddler’s flame burned wildly and the child emitted stupid hollers as it grabbed a winch which attached to a set of pulleys reaching high into the voluminous sickly cloud cover above. Working the mechanism, Espe struggled and sweated, until with unearthly shrieks the vibrating taut thread—which had the appearance of stretched organic matter, perhaps an improbable tendon or gut fibres—travelled up there and returned. At this Kattar jumped, shaken by an intense cry coming from behind him. A tall man dressed in tennis gear, its white material discoloured with a multitude of effluent stains, leaned over a slab upon which struggled one of the burned figures. The tennis man wrestled the distressed figure to submission and—reaching into a barrel marked toxic and retrieving a set of small white items—placed forcefully, and against the recipient’s will, a pair of glass eyes into each of the person’s charred sockets.

The figure rose, in despair, reaching ahead desperately, the whites shining out from the scarred black flesh of its features as the eyes rolled back in a fit of purest agony. At this the dopey queue awoke, and their eyes too clambered for the backs of their skulls.

Kattar leaned back, quick and nauseous breaths. The line started to move, slow steps full of acute pain, the plight of vocal chords in a fight to communicate their agonies creating strange and mellifluous frequencies.

Forward they went, and Espe upped the pace of the winch, and the whole place sang with poisoned voices.

As the chorus amplified with refrains of decomposition, Kattar once again found himself on one knee, proposing that the price of his ticket to the EXIT was too high, that what he’d set in motion with the clatter of the bang of a bolt gun had made him a fool.

The helmsman of the queue stopped and bowed in front of a single scorched brick that appeared on the pathway. A radiant aureole enveloped the figure as it stooped further, slashes of red ripping across its back as the crusted flesh gave, tearing cracks into the penitent flesh. With speed the second in line was upon the helmsman, a violent embrace from behind, a battlecry for connected flesh, a rebellion against tottering off numbly, annihilation into the other’s flesh the only answer at the end.

The figure impacted onto the helmsman and forced the flesh into mush, skin sloughed to run freely away, viscera a gift given, a prayer of rancid organs liquifying to meld with another, then the ragged bones falling to the ground, devoid of everything but the scraps. One after the other the figures approached and ended themselves on the heap, initiated by the helmsman but morphed into a unified hill of gloop.

At last the final figure buried itself until its bones fell and the voices quietened.

Kattar, stunned and dumbstruck, turned to the child. Espe swung around, small cherub frame shaking after the exertions. The fire toddler let out its most idiotic laugh yet and took off.

The Fohnemaz vibrated in his palm. He lifted the object to inspect it. Dark sparkles fleetingly glowed deep within as the hum took on greater complexity. As Kattar absentmindedly moved the Fohnemaz gently side to side the intensity of the hum rose and fell depending on the direction he pointed it. He followed the hum as it grew in strength, and it led him to the opposite side of the gloop hill and the single scorched brick still placed before it on the pathway. These souls and flesh had fed the Fohnemaz, kneeled to the brick.

Kattar placed the Fohnemaz onto the reddish and sooted brick, and stepped back.

dek kvar

Kattar awoke to his face leaned against softness. A velvet wall rested beside him, which he stroked as he righted his stiff body, wincing to free himself from his recumbent awkwardness. Around him the enclosure was a perfect cube, no more than ten feet square, lusciously coated in red wine velvet, a jewellery box oubliette. Above him a dark hatch loomed, wooden and closed.

He sunk against the cushioned wall, pushing clarity to return to his vision, breathing a semblance of rejuvenation into his exhausted muscles. The room comforted. He was too tired to have enquiries, especially on EXITs.

Many lucid inconsequential conjectures later—after wakefulness taken in lost memory—the hatch rumbled.

A harness descended, fashioned to be stepped onto at its lowest, a leather pouch designed for a foot with hand grabs at the appropriate height. Dingy light followed from the space above, dust sinking into the oubliette’s own blank light of unfathomable origin. The place should be black.

With an uncomfortable heave Kattar stood and reached for the harness, struggling a little to secure himself, uncaring of who might raise him up or where he would be headed. The moment he felt bound safely the harness ascended quickly and steadily, up through the open hatch and into the murky light ahead.

A dark laugh emerged from behind him. The harness drew him fully from beneath as he clenched onto it strongly.

“Don’t worry. I’m empty,” a voice said, a smile in it, a voice he recognised, the voice of the suited man.

Kattar swung around to view the man in his suit, a dead man, or so he’d thought. The suited man sat against the scenery of the hallway, waving his pistol around, showing Kattar that there were no more bullets.

“Anyway, I don’t want you anymore. Our little spat seems petty now, considering what I’ve done.”

The suited man motioned with the pistol, pointing to the opposite end of the scenery hallway. Kattar followed the line to Mr Wayfarer, collapsed face down, pink flesh glistening and sunken, still.

“I know. I’m as surprised as your face is gormless.” The suited man tensed his feeble body, his pallid skin bruised deep down, without his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up ready to do his job, track marks staining his arms with squid ink. He rolled his eyes back, just like the burned figures with glass pupils.

“I’m sitting exactly where I was when we first met. Isn’t that romantic? You gonna help me this time? You give me your word?” He laughed again, then coughed and swallowed hard.

“Looks like you don’t need my help,” Kattar said, releasing himself from the harness and standing hunched over slightly, eyes darting between the suited man and the porcine corpse of Mr Wayfarer.

“Oh, the Queen’s going to be out for my blood now. She’s worse, if anything. Don’t think she liked Wayfarer much, but he was hers. She won’t like that I’ve ended him, as in her eyes that should’ve been her privilege.”

“I thought I saw you being torn apart.”

The suited man cleared his throat, his head nodding, ready to topple. “We sparred no kidding. He wrestled me but I had some tricks. See, he was newborn, because of the star. All it took was for him to try it on me, the way of the flesh, and I could remake myself, unlike all the others. I’d been watching him, but he hadn’t been watching me back and all I had to do was wait for the right time. In a way, you did keep your word, friend, although you didn’t know it. You busted his world up, unleashing that star as you did, and all that was left was for me to aim real good.” He chuckled. “I knew he’d go straight back to his old ways, wandering this place in a tantrum like a bratty kid. If he’d sat down at the head of the table, usurped the chairman as was possible, then we’d all be kneeling to him without question. Idiot. We are all creatures of habit, are we not?” He dropped the pistol and protectively rubbed his bare forearms.

“I know you don’t believe me but I will get someone for you. If I find an exit. I don’t know why I should, considering you tried to shoot me the last time I was here.”

“But you weren’t here though, were you? You’ve figured that out by now surely. And you understand me.” The suited man shuffled and winced strongly. “I was justified in wanting you blasted from existence. That me should’ve sent you to hell, and that you would’ve thanked me.” He paused and smirked, “Eventually.”

Kattar expelled a quiet chuckle. “You are the only thing that makes sense in this place, though I’d find it hard to explain that sense to anybody.”

“You’ve shaken things up, that’s why. This tower has been stagnant, replaying its rituals, for all the time I’ve been here, so I’d guess at longer than that also. I make sense because I’m the watcher, I observe, I see things, and I act in response. I’m no knee-jerk. Serve it cold, is what I say.”

Out in the audience an echoey click floated from one side of the auditorium to fill it, followed by a shaft of grey light in a stream. From the place of the onwards door, the door Kattar had travelled through so many times, a new door slowly swung freely open and a small upright shadow—like a rotund walking stick with a bulbous head—appeared framed in the doorway in silhouette.

With a purposeful and flowing motion it moved forwards and out onto the theatre floor, making its shadowy way to the stage.

As it glided down the inclining steps the light from the stage slowly reached it; first in teasing glistens, then over it completely. A squat pole of flexible gristle, dark blood nearly black, tinged with redness here and there, a mixture of oesophagus and spine, spun together with gross ligaments pulled tight and interlacing, all supporting a wider throat at its top, head-like, projecting a bouncy and corroded tongue which flopped at its tip, painted with slimy drool.

“Are youth Kathersh?” it said, with impediment.

“Oh shit,” the suited man said from behind Kattar, “You’ve sure got someone’s attention now!” The suited man laughed, but genuinely this time. “Go with that thing man. It’s probably your best chance to get to that exit.”

“I am here to ressquesth your presensth. Follow me pleasth.”

dek kvin

The throat led Kattar through the door and into the dull light of a cavernous floor. All wall enclosed and black, same material as the ceiling and floor, murkily reflective, a polished rock chamber, seemingly with NO EXIT. Kattar twisted his neck to survey the doorway he’d entered by and saw only blank blackness and his plodding image ethereally stalking the throat away. The throat edged its way forward, by a mesmeric process of the sequential lifting and rolling of fibrous extensions from the bottom part of it as it contacted the smooth surface, a determined tone to its glide, steadycamming all the way to its chosen rest point. It stopped a short way onto the floor and Kattar breathed with tired and sore lungs.

The room held at the centre a gathering of figures sat at a large circular table, the table itself hewn from the same substance as the rest of the room, shiny and dark. All dressed in uniform black, with grey teflon visors in wraparound, hiding their gaze, their features were expressionless. They busied themselves with knitting needles, their wool an endless supply of raw arteries pulled from the meeting point of the walls to the ceiling, long pink strands of pliable flesh exuding from somewhere beyond the room, reaching from every corner, crafted together into knitted artery scarves, the scarves flowing from each figure to out and over the tabletop to cascade into an open round chasm at the very middle.

“Pleasthh remain standinggng for thhechhairmanss addressss. I will thransthlate where nesthesssthsary.”

A single seat stood out in anomaly, and the only clear-eyed man at the table rose from it. The others continued to knit silently, held in an upright posture in chairs designed to mimic the aesthetics of commuter and airplane seats, moulded in black, all wearing headphone sets, a large node attached to their voice boxes, the multilingual club readying for the act of translation, the receivership of a unified voice.

The chairman, freed from his iron lung, propped himself up by leaning one arm onto the table and taking his full weight with his left hand, frail and haggard. He paused for a long time.

“This building has a sickness,” he said, his voice scratchy but resolute.

The voice box nodes on every figure lit up as the translation devices initiated.

“Are we nothing but sectaries for the double bind of commerce? We are infantile idealists of a mono-utopia, this elegant hegemony is predisposed to a culture of chaos, the hierarchy we’ve structured with expediencies at the sacrifice of individualism. Globalisation has made us curs, snarling our way to doom, triggered to implode—a fosterer of insurgency and revolutionary acts.”

“The chairmann thoughth longng and hard abouth thiss,” the throat said, droplets of drool sliming over its raw residue of a jaw.

“Our Wayfarer is dead. No more will that creature reign. These halls are returned to our stewardship, though I fear we are unpractised and unprepared to do what is necessary. As a result, I will attempt to resurrect Wayfarer as soon as possible.”

The figures stopped their knitting and sat passively.

“Your attention fellows!” The chairman shuffled his arm and regained a safe position, hollow eyes sunken and sparkling. “I have the star, you see? That shameful hecatomb will no longer be necessary. The balance has shifted. We should take this opportunity, friends, to return Wayfarer, but on our terms.”

The others recommenced their knitting with greater ferocity, arteries jittering overhead, the flesh scarves tumbling into the dark pit at the centre of the table.

“The chairmath is getthings too bigg for histh bootsth.”

“Please, please! Do not worry yourselves—it’s the only way to restore our order. The Queen will be no obstacle. You see, the star lights the way, and new cracks have appeared to me. One of these fractures showed me a way out, fellows. So I’ve banished her up top, sent her through with no way to return, and shut the door on her wormy arse.”

“Yesss,” the throat hissed, “there is your exith. Inside the chairmanthsh.”

Kattar stared at the chairman as the man tensed in the effort of his sophistry, a bungled entreaty to ring-fence the status quo, the cackles of hyenas set to demolish kingdoms in seizures of waste and violence.

The table remained implacable, an inch not worth giving, the game being up, the frenzy of the clacking of their needles shaking contours into the air.

“You’ll regret this,” the chairman said, his voice growling every syllable. “If you reject Wayfarer, dismiss me, then the tide will sweep you up too, every last one of you!” His skin bubbled and a harsh white light brightened slowly deep within, creeping to reveal the capillaries and veins of his exposed face, neck and hands, glowing like an supernova through his clothing. Blue flame ignited his thin hair, creating an electric nimbus around his head, a slit grin across his face. The figures writhed in their seats, their manic knitting dropping stitches, great holes appearing in the fabric, their translation nodes malfunctioning and flickering causing hectic spasming, windpipes fighting for oxygen and expelling gobbledegook.

Beams of intense white sprung from the chairman’s eye sockets, lighting the room in a multitude of endlessly tumbling prismatic shards, reflecting away into the gasping void of black. He sliced the twin throbbing energy beams across the room, viciously severing the fleshy tendons from the knitters in a single cut, spraying putrid fluids to every corner. Bathed in liquid filth, the figures at the table sunk into their chairs, as if someone had pulled the plug. The chairman stood, beams roaring with anger, studying his deflated followers, inanimate before him, ready to feed the new world with their rot. With a click and a buzz, the beams blinked off, only round hollow sockets left, smouldering and enquiring.

Kattar stood paralysed as the chairman’s gaze somehow avoided him. The chairman fell to his knees and opened his mouth as the last of the woven material slunk into the pit at the centre of the table with an oozing slick.

“The charmanth is distrethd at thiss outhcomne.”

The chairman jolted upright, his face flooded with bruised blue, his skin retracting, his gaunt frame convulsing as his vacant eye sockets fixed above him, disbelieving and pleading. A moan erupted from his core and his body began to swell: first to fill his clothes, with engorged hands at his cuffs and his neck spilling over his collar; then his clothes tearing away, all the while him maintaining his proportions as he increased in size. Simultaneously, the blue tint travelled to envelope his entire naked body, its colour intensifying to a luminous turquoise and eventually settling into a cascade of shining scales. At last he keeled forwards to take to all fours, black sockets glistening with teardrops, a vipers tongue studded with diamonds testing the air. Slowly, the chairman widened his jaw, dislocating with a bony creak, ready to devour the sunken corpses attending the final feed of their tongue.

“Lingua franca,” the throat said, “is officially a dead language.”

Kattar grabbed the throat creature, its repulsive gooeyness sliming between his fingers as he gripped it and rushed towards the chairman. With a thrust, Kattar placed the creature lengthwise between the chairmen’s upper and lower jaw, wedging the maw open. The throat creature cried and whined, fleshy gurgles as its trachea filled with viscous spittle, pushed against the roof of the mouth, the chairman thrashing from side to side caught by surprise. Punching the chairman on the snout, Kattar steadied the stinking mouth long enough to inch an elbow inside. A sickly glow called from deep within. Assessing that the chairman’s throat would take his frame with room to spare, Kattar dived in.

dek ses

So Kattar travelled down into the beast, wriggling his way through the mucus and slime covered passage. He met the chairmen’s fulsome breath on his way, a rankling odorous wind which barrelled past him and buffeted so strongly he was forced to muster every strength his reserves would send him.

Around the fleshy tunnel he went, pumping his elbows against the sides of the flesh tube. Thick drops of sputum oozed from freshly born pores and fresh pustules burst at his touch to release spores smelling of sweet banana in puffs of warm breezes. All the while the otherworldly light within the chairman continued to illuminate his path, and he pummelled ahead, widening the tunnel as he went, his eyes searching the unearthly glow for the way forward.

Eventually, when his spirits were near their end, a brighter light beckoned him forwards, to a pulsating circular opening up ahead. With every last effort he pushed himself on and with a spectacular heave shot out of the tunnel in a flurry of gastric juices, to splatter onto a quivering and squelchy floor.

When he had recovered himself he got to his feet and staggered around uneasily. All around him the room glowed with an ancient light, seemingly exuded from the domed encasement of the stomach lining itself, the walls rising and falling in response to the chairman’s respiratory rhythm, the beast at rest for now. Kattar imagined that the chairman was perhaps in despair and had slumped defeated and resigned, saving his energy for Kattar’s return.

In the centre of the stomach the star hovered and shone, its light entombed by the place, a strangulated twinkle, and with it a floating companion, a foeticide victim floating in a protective ball of clear fluid and attached to the star with a transparent umbilical tube. The unformed baby nodded its soporific head inside its sac, and bobbed in the air softly.

So Kattar stepped to the star and the foetus, and with a shaky hand reached for the tiny spark.

The foetus roused in its liquid housing and opened its small eyes, eyes that were black as charred mouse brains and as pretty. It wiggled and the sac bounced, before the startled foetus settled its gaze upon Kattar and slowly attempted to form words with its white lips.

One by one ghostly pale lifeforms swum from the foetus’s open mouth, popping out fully formed to gather and dance inside the fluid sac. The foetus stared at these fluttering creatures, all with a bulbous featureless body and finlike tail to propel them around. They glided serenely back and forth, claiming the cocoon of the fluid encasement as their habitat, the foetus their creator.

With the dawn of this new hierarchy in place, Kattar felt safe to disconnect the foetus and its sac from the glow of the star. So he clamped a hand firmly in place around the girth of the transparent umbilical and pulled mightily.

dek sep

Tribulations erupt. Shattering crescents damning virtue to snub the vexatious hoards. Aimlessly eulogising celebrity hags, glass blown and indecent well-wishers with sunstroke. They totter from the inequities of their by-ways, some vanquished backwater moony daydreams. Stack the inept upon a heap of talent show rejects, catching their ankles down the side of escalators. All to keep you in business. They’ll rub it better for you.

Systems hit the cityscape sewerage with fatbergs, king rat handing out futureproof mastectomies to livestock auctioneers. Able-bodied hoodwinkers trash the speculation of your indecencies, so that they live on in you. I might seize what is mine says Kattar. Reverse oesophageal birthing, supplicating the ocean of blood in the beast’s gullet. That small town hunger ravishes in glory when cornered. And out he pops.

He looks at that beast and its jaw. The throat creature is getting masticated, its already demolished bones reduced to splinters in their filth, launched as sharp projectiles with every wonky gnash from the beast. The star purges its brightest self, too bright to look at, too beautiful to see. One chump and its away, into Kattar to light his liver and raise him up above the beast. He swallows and chirrups.

Better than hopscotch, better than blood, the star sinks with songs to sing along his innards until dissolution is the max. Grind your teeth on the taste Kattar, see the beast’s thrashing below to reach you, disconnecting its head with spite, howling its mission into the soles of your ascending feet. You’ll feel the darkness of the room, these walls, this broken conference. Steady lad.

All the city left behind the walls somewhere, all the city.

He exhales softly.

All is black.

Your anatomy speaks here, in the crack. Places designated, actions denied. A plague widower-class sculptured bankruptcy from pedalo afternoons with mongoloid neighbours. Arbiter of tronglodyte werewolves, dismissive of the decay in the proficiency of effluence, devoid of bitch love, helper monkeys and rampant colic. Severance repossessions are bacterial under the sun. Every last one of them is a womaniser or ready to be so, calculations permit the pedagogical nosebleeds. The beast will recover in traction, ardent physiotherapy sessions employed under duress, the strain of bewitching embolisms castigating second opinions. When the beast finds wellness, the unwashed pick scabs.

No cohorts to barter ramshackle memories of yesteryear, my dear. Kattar, you float to your EXIT on the guiding hands of a clean heart, smiles and echo voices drown about you, a void of want for you, taking in the souls still beholden, a manic disco of monotony and dread. Deserved, this respite. Another day, where your city plays its disjuncts and only a star can crash its wheel.

dek ok

A sea of glass.

Kattar perched on the rim of a woodblock, inside a freshly constructed outhouse, unused, timber scented with sawing of not long ago, planks fitted in place neatly, like someone cared, had taken pride in the small building. The door hung open out of sight, him inside sitting in the shadow, his body at rest, for once, perhaps the first time, the air restorative and sweet and fresh, the light ahead made for his eyes, beautiful in every direction, clear. At points in the natural variations of the wood planks, their meeting edges let in a crack of golden light, briefly and steadily, warm about him where it was.

He sat relaxed, out of sync a little, elbow cocked to the side with a twisted hand taking its weight, his body leaning to the other side, in comfort, so he could be before what he could see and rest.

Outside the outhouse a floor of shine made pearlescent silver, and above a sigh of cloud rippled washed colours that shifted imperceptibly. Hazy reflections gleamed in the opaqueness of the sea, the horizon made strange by its far away flatness, no curve here, not even a small one. And on the sea, sitting slightly off centre and to the left of his eye line, far enough away that he couldn’t decipher her features, the Queen of Worms took her comfort in exile, stretched out on a luxuriously upholstered chaise longue.

For a while, for a time, he took a moment and tasted the place. It swooned about him, quietly, like he wasn’t there and didn’t need to be, the extensions severed, quizzes all foolhardy, perceptions amusing but nothing more, quiddity a nonsense rhyme recited elsewhere and he gifted it away with magnanimity. Let someone else give it a try.

The Queen raised her head from her far off resting place and kept her neck tilted to allow herself to precisely meet the outhouse with her gaze. Her poise unfaltering, even in her entrapment, she’d exhibit her majesty without question. Kattar imagined the hoary worms wriggling from her orifices and dropping to scatter. Would the floor eat them up, or would they rot here eventually just like everywhere else? Would they thrive in this place, the rules conducive to seeing them grow to unusual size, perhaps accelerate or inspire anomalous mutations, eventually seeing them outnumber their royal host, and she be the devoured one? Part of him wanted to watch them eat her there and then, but instead he rose from the wooden seat, ready to go to her.

He took a step and hesitated, slowly turning to take a look at the round hole that had soothed his worn arse; that black hole he’d struggled through, up from the tower, swept on his determinations and the weird whims of cretins. Now, with the hole silent and all death held in it, blacker, he turned away from the toilet and placed his foot out onto the beauty of the silver sea.

The glass beneath him nonsensically exhibited the city below, the swirling mistiness scattering the mirrored reflection of the firmament, spires somewhere leagues away down there, shown indistinct and in glimpses, yet the whole cityscape out in plan, obfuscated underneath, silent as if timeless.

The surface of the sea gave a little as he walked it, the silver cushioning him as he skated his feet in firm and unhurried strides. He felt numb and hypersensitive, the clarity of the place designed to fit him. Out in front, in only a short distance to travel, lay the Queen and her worms, and Kattar’s approaching revealed her face dazzled with agonies, her languishing resultant of distress and fatigue rather than bliss.

“Who’s there?” she said, her voice a strained hoarse whisper, decorated with sweetness, projected in a fractured echo from another world, her mouth unmoving and crammed with its host of worms, the voice coming from somewhere within her. “Speak. I can hear you, whoever you are.” She paused and raised her blind head to find him, the caverns of her eye sockets spilling their wormy residents. “Am I wrong? Is there really no one?”

Kattar shuffled his feet across the calm silver and swallowed reflexively and dryly.

“Say who you are, I beg you. Do not make your Queen so nervous.”

“I’m...” He had no answer, everything had escaped him, all of what he was wasn’t enough, not enough to tell her.

“So you don’t want to speak, is that it? Or perhaps you can’t. Tell me what has brought you here, if you can. I’m meant to be alone, your presence tells me the rules have changed.”

Kattar took a breath, quick, deep, steadying, resigning. “I’m looking for the exit.” It was the truth, after all.

“Ah,” she said, a spectral sigh following. “You came all this way, and ended up here, hunting your exit like a prize. How many ways have you betrayed yourself to arrive here?”

He bowed his head, not from shame, but from cluelessness. He’d always been clueless. “I don’t know. More ways than I’ll ever know, most likely.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” she said, the hint of a smile in her hovering voice. “This place, my banishment, is simplicity, you see. It’s where order encases, where empiricism finds its expression and the fullest extent of its revelations, where chaos is real but has sense. The information is the ruler here. That’s why I’ve been sent here. It is my cage, where every particle is a torture and anathema to my nature. I’m complexity, I’m between the lines, I’m the rubbish that makes magic. That devil loves simple things—how he hoodwinks so easily. People want to believe it’s that simple, because it is for a price.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“You do. You do.”

Kattar nodded before he’d realised he’d done so.

“Did you come through a doorway to get here? If you did, then you are like me, and that would also explain why you’ve travelled so far, reached the top of the tower, moved between the walls and bent the cracks open. Is your door still there?”

Kattar turned to peer back along the pathway he’d taken across the sea floor, where he spied the humble outhouse waiting mutely far away. “Yes,” he said, returning to face her. “It’s still there, though I don’t know if there’s a way back through it.”

“Well, this is a conundrum. You see, the thing is with doors, as they work here, is that they are a one in, one out deal. What I mean to say is, for the sake of order, a door allows one passage in, and one out. So, if someone travels through it, and then there’s a return, it will disappear. Neither of us can conjure another door in this place, it’s hard enough from the other side but impossible here. Only one of us can go back.”

“I think I should tell you—your Mr Wayfarer is dead.”

“I know. It wasn’t a surprise. He’s had it coming for a long time. Pushed his luck.”

Kattar stared wide-eyed. The Queen sensed his questioning.

“I do love him,” she said, “Don’t let my cavalier words lead you to think otherwise. I just know him too well, unfortunately. Anyway, whatever chance we had to reconcile evaporated long ago. Unlike you. What are you doing here when that poor girl, your other, is on her way up? It’s her nature, you know—to climb. She won’t stop. And you won’t be there to meet her. You,” she wagged a wizened finger, “will only make sense when you take that descent.”

“Anna?”

“Yes, you fool, of course.”

Kattar laughed. “I don’t know. I’ve never known about Anna.”

“We never know—until we do.” The Queen chuckled. “My Wayfarer is my bond, my tether, my terror, my love. To deny that would be to betray myself.”

“The chairman wants to bring him back. I heard his speech. He wants Wayfarer resurrected.”

The Queen of Worms let out a low gasp and held one arm to her chest. “No, I can’t allow it. He’ll go after Espe. Espe is growing stronger every day, but he’s not able to protect himself against his father, even if his father is weakened. I need to defend my son.” She turned her head to face Kattar. “Will you help me? This is the exit you’ve been searching for and you have no reason to go back. You’ll lose your mind here, that’s what you want isn’t it? Not to think anymore? In time, you’ll go to sleep; no memory, no awareness, no feeling. I can put Wayfarer back in his box, at least for a while. The world needs a break from his impulses.”

Kattar shook his head violently and glanced back at the outhouse. Could he really go back? Take the shitter to Anna, risk his EXIT, this anaesthetising wonderland? The Queen’s words could be that of the traitor, the desperate exiled. But they sounded true.

“I’m without indemnity here,” she said, “as it’s not necessary. Everything is cushion, anodyne and reflection. Nothing will ever be new. Wayfarer will wreck the place below if he’s dragged back to it. His rage will not be satisfied by the tower, or constrained by it now. That city beneath your tired feet will fall, he’ll swallow it up and use the vomit to rape the world. I might be able to soothe him, just a little, just enough. If you go back to the woman who travels to you, there will be nothing but doom for you anyway. You could save her if you stay here and let me go.”

“If you are right about her, about Anna, then stolen time with her is all that matters. I’ve been coasting for so long, learning my life by rote, at the mercy of the instruction of others. I was directed to pull a trigger, and I complied unquestioningly. I have no initiative—I’ve been pathetic and cosseted, wilfully ignorant, shepherded up this tower. It’s too easy.”

The Queen sighed and crumpled into her cushion, deflated. “Well, perhaps all is for the best. This place has all you desire, remember that. Don’t give it up lightly. Don’t be rash, Kattar.”

The outhouse.

If I stay here all that will be is my voice.

“If I stay here all that will be is my voice.”

If I stay here all that will be is my voice.

And before the throne there was a sea of glass like unto crystal: and in the midst of the throne, and round about the throne, were four beasts full of eyes before and behind.

—Revelation 4:6, Holy Bible: King James Version

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.

Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.

—Friedrich Nietzsche. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Prologue, 5

Cardboard Wall Empire releases

anemogram by Rebecca Gransden

A mysterious young girl emerges from the woods. Alone, she wanders into the life of David. David is wrestling with an unsatisfactory existence and searching for a sense of purpose. He decides to look out for the girl but soon discovers she may not be all she seems.

Together they decide to seek out a place of safety, away from a world that could misunderstand their relationship. They journey through the fringe landscape of the outskirts, the rundown and forgotten. As their troubles come to the surface events take a turn that will have life-changing consequences for the both of them.

anemogram is about a young girl and the power that is given to her. A story driven by the inner worlds of its characters, the surreal and dreamlike fuse with the mundanity of the everyday, inviting the reader to take as much as they bring.

Rusticles by Rebecca Gransden

In Hilligoss, a tired man searches for a son, a flamingo enthrals the night, and fireworks light up the lost. In these stories and more, Rusticles offers a meandering tour through backroads bathed in half light, where shadows play along the verges and whispers of the past assault daydreams of the present. Walk the worn pathways of Hilligoss.

Out Black Spot by Leo X. Robertson

Set during an oil crisis-induced war in South America, Out Black Spot tells the story of Juan and his twin brother Matias as they fight to stay alive in the hopes of one day returning to their home, and normality. Juan is a poet, but since the death of his wife, he can’t seem to recapture the same creativity he used to pour into his work. Carrying a dark secret that threatens to destroy his life, he fights every day to win the war around him, and the one in his own head. Can he forgive himself and make it out alive, or will his inability to escape the past destroy him? Matías' wife Octavia is in a civilian holding in Paraguay’s capital, Asuncion, trying to forge a new life with her son. When the Pombero, a malevolent spirit, comes to visit them, their brief period of calm is brought abruptly to an end, and she must make a difficult decision: offer the Pombero a live sacrifice, or let him take the twins instead. Out Black Spot considers the lengths we will go to in order to protect our loved ones, find new energy sources or even change the past.

Sinkhole by Leo X. Robertson

The characters in these stories live in disconnected worlds, inside their own heads, trying to create meaning for themselves. In Dead Cats on Motorways, a father tries to work out if the family cat has been run over before his son comes home. In The London Bus, an ordinary woman gives in to her compulsion to vie for the attention of apathetic bus passengers, going to deeper and darker lengths each time. The Badass London Ex-Bitches and the Case of the Creepy Revenge Porn Guy is the story of three women who band together to find out who put their naked photos online. These stories and more are about what goes wrong when we fail to communicate.

Rude Vile Pigs by Leo X. Robertson

Rude Vile Pigs is a satirical black comedy set in the city of Sadwhitepeopledrinking, and follows the antics of Jim Joy, a middle-aged alcoholic who accidentally creates a religion dedicated to selfishness. Recently divorced, depressed and living in a squalid flat, Jim realises that his newfound mobility and complete lack of shame can lead him to new exciting depths, doing whatever he wants and encouraging the same of others. Through his alcohol-fuelled misadventures, Jim is about to discover what happens when a society gives in to its basest impulses.

• • • •

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Anemogram

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Sea of Glass

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About the Author

Rebecca Gransden has always lived by the sea. She tends to write about the edges of things so if you inhabit the fringes you may find something to like.

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Copyright

Published by Rebecca Gransden, 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

SEA OF GLASS

First edition. April 28, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Gransden.

Written by Rebecca Gransden.

Content

Rebecca Gransden
SEA OF GLASS

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Cardboard Wall Empire releases

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