Blacker
Chapter Sixteen: The Impossible

It was another dream. He’d only ever had one dream that felt like this and when he’d awoken from it his sight had been gone.

In the dream world, he was sitting on a beach. But there was no water. He looked around and realized it was a desert. There was a familiar figure sitting next to him. Her whole face smiled to see him. She was beautiful in the lemon summer dress. Her skin was lightly tanned from the sun. He stared at her freckled face for a long time, enjoying seeing her and knowing it was not going to last.

“I’m hurt,” he said, “somewhere. Wherever I am, I’ve been hurt again.”

“You’re going to be alright,” Carol Anne said. “Everything is going to be just fine. I can see you. I can understand it.”

“I’m sorry about everything that happened,” MacGregor said, “I had two chances with you. I destroyed us the first time round. The second time round, I should have known better. I’ve always loved you, Carol Anne. I have always remembered us. I should have treated you better. I know that now. I should have listened to you, been there for you. I lost you twice. I should have learned the first time. I’m so, so sorry.”

He was rambling, speaking too fast. But it was a chance to confess his guilt. A chance he knew was fake but wanted to take anyway. Already he felt a little better. He reached out his left hand. She reached out her right hand. She smiled a wide smile. Her eyes twinkled like there were a million diamonds within them.

“None of that matters,” Carol Anne soothed. “We are what we are now. Whatever happened in the past should be left there.”

“I want us to start again,” MacGregor said. “I want you to know that I’m sorry. I should have been happy just the way we were. I should have been happy. Everything that went wrong was my fault and not yours.”

“It’s alright, John,” Carol Anne said. “Just hold my hand and we’ll get through this together.”

“And don’t forget the gun.” The voice belonged to Hunter. “Make sure you pick it up, John. Make sure you take it with you.”

“What?”

He was suddenly awake and back in the real world. It was raining again, light drops of cool water that tasted like copper. His back throbbed dully when he moved and the stitches in his abdomen were sensitive, stinging as he brushed his fingers against them. He touched his side carefully, sliding his fingers under the wet material of his Parka and the cotton shirt beneath. The stitches seemed intact. He thought of Hunter and waved his left hand in his dark world.

“Eilidh? Are you alright?”

There was no answer. He replaced the shirt and parka and started to clamber to his feet. There was heavy masonry nearby and he pushed carefully against it. His back ached, like he’d been punched hard just below the left shoulder. His left arm felt tight, reluctant to move. He moved it carefully, exploring any potential new injuries as he stood to his full height.

“Eilidh, where are you?”

There was no answer. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. The air felt cooler than it had in the day, but warmer than he remembered it being before they’d retreated to the hotel in Tain. The rain was falling in infrequent drops, not even a shower. Almost spitting, but not quite. The odd drop felt cool on his skin, but not particularly cold. He couldn’t feel the sun on his face, no matter which way he turned. It was either night time, or the sun was behind clouds. He couldn’t tell which for sure.

“Eilidh!”

He shouted her name with a considerable volume, but he could still go louder. He didn’t want to, not yet, at least. She must have left him for a reason, he thought. Maybe she’d returned to her flat to get something. Maybe he was more injured than he thought. He decided to sit down again and wait. He searched his pocket for cigarettes, but there were none. He felt around himself but there was nothing but large, rough-edged chunks of broken concrete. He wanted to explore further, but the thought of falling off the bridge kept him where he was.

For five minutes or more he stayed that way. Occasionally he’d give a shout in one direction and then another. It was always the same word.

“Eilidh!”

Another five minutes passed. Then another ten. The rain had stopped completely. There were no sounds in the city at all. His throat was dry from shouting. He crawled on his hands and knees, carefully making his way around in half circles and constantly feeling for the edge of the bridge. He located the gun and plucked it from the pavement.

He took a deep breath and prepared for his loudest shout. “Eilidh!” he screamed, “Eilidh!”

He repeated the shout until his throat ached.

There was no answer.

He swore quietly for a few minutes, hammering the road surface and sitting alone and afraid. He scrambled around on his hands and knees, ever cautious of the dangerous road surface. His fingers discovered more massive lumps of fallen and crumbling masonry. There were heavy pieces of steel and other lighter metals scattered around. MacGregor explored them carefully, but gave up when he lost a thin slice of his index finger to some unseen razor sharp metal fragment.

“Shit!”, he shouted “Eilidh, where the fuck are you?”

He moved onwards. His fingers found something wet, cold and sticky. It was obviously blood. He probed cautiously along the edges of the thick pool of awfulness. His hand withdrew at lightning speed when his fingers brushed against something distinctly terrible.

“Oh shit,” he whispered.

He couldn’t bear to do it, but there was no option. He reached out slowly, afraid to touch what he knew had to be the cracked open skull of a human being. His fingers found matted hair and then the sharp, cold edge of broken cranial bones.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered, “Eilidh.”

He explored the warm pulp of mashed brains and fluid, fighting the impulse to retch. But then he touched stone. Hard, flat stone. It seemed to have crushed her body flat, popping her head like a grape.

He rolled away from the mess, suddenly fighting the urge to vomit. He was sure that he was going to lose the contents of his stomach. He felt his mouth watering, his stomach tightening up. He had tears in his eyes, had the cold shock of knowing that he was completely alone and completely doomed. Somehow, he held it all inside. The fear, the nausea and the horror of it all. Somehow, he swallowed it down.

With the urge to puke his guts out now diminished, he closed his eyes and found himself crying softly, hopelessly. He stayed that way for a long time. The rain began to fall lightly. He stayed curled up, sobbing on the cracked asphalt. The rain stopped abruptly. He kept crying, shivering and shaking. But after about five minutes, he got back to his feet.

The gun was still in his hand. He’d kept hold of it. He didn’t remember Hunter telling him to do so in the dream – at least not consciously. But the Sig Sauer P229 automatic pistol was a commodity. There were three bullets left. If he’d counted properly. He only needed one to end all of this. He weighed the gun in his hand, then he pressed the barrel against his temple. He touched the trigger lightly. He removed the gun and placed the barrel into his mouth, angling the weapon upwards. The gun wobbled as his hand shook violently. He dropped his gun hand down to his side and swore quietly, cursing himself.

He made the handgun safe and slipped it into the right side hip pocket of the Parka. He got to his feet slowly, turning away from the crushed and mangled skull and the moat of thick, sticky blood. He took two bold steps across the road surface, then he stopped. He took another three steps. His toe kicked the curb. It was the pavement. He stepped up. He remembered this bridge well and kept walking until he bumped into the wall. He leaned over and listened to the river.

The river moved slowly beneath him, but he could still hear the water lightly trickling and lapping against the grassy banking and concrete bridge supports. There were no other sounds. No birds, traffic, trains or other sounds of the city. No rumbles, distance earthquakes or chaotic wrenching of huge objects being taken apart. The silence was absolute. He closed his eyes and thought of the gun again. It would be quick and probably painless. He imagined his suicide for a long while. He could press the gun against his right temple and pull the trigger. It would be all over.

He pressed the gun against his forehead and touched the trigger lightly. The pistol was a double action. There was no danger of accidentally firing it because of the trigger’s built-in safety mechanism. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger a little harder.

Then he heard a familiar sound. It was a blast from the past, something he hadn’t heard for many years. A distance and almost undetectable creaking, but unmistakable to MacGregor’s anxious ears. It was the dentist’s sign at the south end of the bridge, an ancient piece of history suspended above the tall pillared entrance to the Bridge Street Dentists. The sign moved slowly in the low breeze, producing an occasional squeak that MacGregor now used to replace his bearings.

“Right,” he said to himself. He pocketed the pistol and grabbed the top of the stone wall. Before he’d lost his sight, he’d walked this way many times. It was possible that he could replace his way back to the flat. The road was straight for most of the way. Bridge Street led to Eglinton Street which would eventually run parallel to Pollockshaws Road. At some point, he’d need to cross onto Pollockshaws Road. There was a pub at that point called The Star Bar.

The Star Bar had never been a regular haunt for MacGregor, but he’d been there several times in the past with long departed friends. The pub was hailed as “Glasgow’s friendliest bar” and had a distinctive curved design. It was situated on the small triangle of pavement where he’d be able to cross over to Pollockshaws Road. Pollockshaws Road would eventually blend into Victoria Road and then it was about a quarter mile back to the flat. It wasn’t impossible. The most difficult part would be crossing over onto Pollockshaws Road from the Star Bar. But he reasoned that once he reached the Star Bar he could reorient himself. Yes, that was the way to do this. Break it into stages. Otherwise, it would be just impossible to even imagine succeeding.

He leaned against the wall, listening to the quiet sounds of the river below. It did not smell particularly fresh. But the odors were the natural and unique aromas of an overgrown riverbank. The wild garlic wafted through as well, overwhelming everything else.

He didn’t know for sure if the human remains he’d touched belonged to Hunter or the thing that had pretended to be Fraser. But if Hunter was still alive, her absence could not be explained. No, the body he’d discovered had to belong to her. Much as he wanted to wait here on the bridge, it was pointless. There was only one place left to go.

He started towards the distant creak of the old dentist’s sign. After a few steps he used his right hand to squeeze the handgun in the pocket of his coat. Behind him, the last human female on the planet was smashed, broken and buried beneath tonnes of concrete and iron. There was no reason to do anything anymore, besides for the act itself. Movement for the sake of movement. Staying alive for the sake of staying alive.

He squeezed the gun once more, moving along the wall with a quickening pace. It emboldened him to realize that he could leave anytime he wanted to. He was just a trigger pull away from the delicious forever darkness of death. But knowing he could leave this world so easily now made staying in it all the more appealing. He didn’t know why. It was just the way he felt.

He reached the end of the bridge. The creaking had stopped for now, the wind having died down a little more. The air was cooler. Several times he’d imagined that he’d felt rays of sun falling on his cheeks, but not anymore. Now he was almost totally certain that night had fallen or was well and truly on its way. He smiled to himself once more and laughed quietly inside. There was a road to cross. Directly opposite lay the dentist. He waited patiently for the sign to creak in the breeze. After a good three minutes or more, it did. He walked towards the sound with his arms outstretched like a mummy.

He judged the distance to the opposite side of the road very well. The index finger of his right hand found the sandstone pillar at the right side of the locked solid big wooden doors.

“Okay,” he said to himself, “so far so good.”

This was Bridge Street. He didn’t know how many roads turned off and away from this road before it would reach the Star Bar, but there was a long way to go. He kept moving. With each step, the immensity of the task seemed all the more overwhelming. But the gun in his pocket was the answer to everything, he knew. There was no need to be afraid.

He crossed one road and had trouble replaceing the pavement opposite. He guessed that he’d veered to the right and took careful steps to the left. After a few steps his left hand found the rusting metal railing that matched the one on the road he’d just crossed from. He climbed over the railing and groped his way across the pavement to the next wall. In total, he’d covered about fifty meters. He kept moving.

The rain started falling. It was of no great concern to him. He crossed another road and felt his way along the next building. Glass windows, crumbling brick, metal shutters. He didn’t remember this part of the road. But it was straight all the way to the Star bar. He just hoped that none of the buildings between here and there had the same curving architecture. If they did, he was lost.

He crossed another two roads, getting more confident. His heart jumped when his fingertips felt windows that reminded him of the Star Bar’s windows. Small, square panes separated by thin wooden frames with thick and flaking paint. But this wasn’t the same place. It was too near to the city center. He felt cold. Not from the rain, but from knowing that his senses could be so easily deceived.

“Fucking get a grip,” he told himself. “I haven’t got lost. I know where I am.”

It occurred to him to shout out one more time for Hunter. He fantasized that it was not her body that he’d felt. It had been Fraser’s. Somehow, she’d left the scene to get something and would still return. If she was on the bridge now she could still replace him if he shouted loud enough.

He licked rainwater from his lips. He decided against shouting and kept following the wall with his fingertips. There was another multi-paned window and then an open door. He crossed the open doorway, kicking his way through one or more badly deteriorated corpses as he went. He sniffed the air curiously, almost surprised that there was no odor of death. He followed the wall until all he could feel under his fingertips was a cold metal shutter that seemed to go on forever. Then there was more brick. And then the wall came to an end. It was another T-junction, another expanse of nothingness he needed to fumble his way across. But he felt he could do it. With every step, he was getting closer to home. Once he got there? Well, maybe he’d replace a bottle of Southern Comfort somewhere and just get completely destroyed. And then he could worry about what he needed to do next.

He found his way to the end of the pavement. He hesitated there, his right foot hovering over nothingness. For an insane moment he imagined there was nothing for his foot to land on. Maybe the forces he’d heard tearing the city apart had gouged a huge chunk out of the ground right where he was about to step.

“Fuck,” he cursed himself loudly. He stamped his foot onto the ground. He breathed noisily, each breath a growled combination of anxiety and frustrated rage.

The rain was heavier now. Colder. He opened his mouth, enjoying the moisture. He wondered if the rain would penetrate the coat and damage the Sig Sauer, ending his chances for an easy exit from these nightmarish final days. Or day, depending on how this journey went.

“Days,” he reminded himself. Even if he didn’t make it back to the flat there was no need to end it all prematurely. It would be easy enough to replace food, water and even alcohol in the deserted houses. He could live as long as he wanted or die as quickly as he liked. In fact, he considered himself practically dead already. For all intents and purposes, everything he did now was completely pointless.

His toe bumped against the curb. His hands found the familiar metal railing. He climbed over it and edged towards the wall, reaching with his left hand. He side stepped a half step at a time, stretching out his fingertips. Then he found his left foot coming down on weeds and grass. He kicked at the foliage, carefully at first and then a little harder. He thought that there would be a wall behind the grass, another building for him to touch and follow with his fingertips. But there were only more tangled and sticky weeds, more undergrowth. He felt soft grass underfoot.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He realized that there was no building. This was an area of wasteland. He didn’t remember it being this way, but the growth of weeds and grass was nothing new. He searched his memory but he couldn’t remember this section of the route. He stepped backwards slowly until he felt the metal railing against his buttocks. He nodded silently to himself. He remembered the railing. He kept his hand on it and walked along, his left hand outstretched in front to protect his face from unseen obstacles.

The railing ended after about ten meters. He moved back across the pavement and this time his left hand touched the flaking rust of a builder’s fence. It swayed as he pushed against it. He smiled and moved along the flimsy barrier. The rain had stopped. The wind was beginning to increase, but it was warm enough. Almost too warm in the heavy Parka. He was smiling to himself, but concentrating enormously. This wasn’t too bad. This was achievable.

He crossed the road yet again, moving in as straight a line as he could. Again, he climbed over another metal safety railing. He found the next building in a handful of steps and felt his way along carefully. This wall was smoother, the paint more or less intact. He had an idea of where he was and it was confirmed when his fingers touched the first of two ticket collection points. He recognized the narrow, aluminum shuttered and the low windows immediately. This was the O2 Academy at the top of Eglinton Street. The building had once housed a cinema, but this was long before MacGregor’s time. He’d only ever been here once before. He didn’t even remember the name of the band, but Carol Anne had enjoyed the night. He remembered that, beyond the venue, there was another area of open ground.

He made his way to the edge of the building and stopped moving, thinking about what he was going to do next. There was no wall to follow. He remembered that much. There were trees, but he didn’t remember how many or how apart he should expect them to be. He couldn’t risk moving from one to another as he didn’t remember if the trees followed the road or were just spaced unevenly on the grass. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He was a quarter of the way there, perhaps more. So far, he hadn’t become completely and hopelessly lost.

There was no more rain or wind. The city was completely silent. There should not have been a time of night or day when this road was even remotely quiet. Even at four o’clock in the morning there was always a train, a bus or a car. But now there was nothing. There were no voices shouting echoes in the night. There wasn’t the caw of a crow or the mechanical croak of a magpie. There were no tuck tuck tucking sounds of bold blackbirds gathering worms for their young. The city was devoid of everything that had made it even remotely alive. He was a lone wanderer fumbling through this vast desert of emptiness. But he was going to keep going. He’d come this far.

He made a sudden decision on how to proceed. He just wanted to get moving, get this over with. He moved back to the pavement. He’d replace the curb and follow that until there was another metal rail or another junction. Then he’d work his way across and start over. At each junction he would cross the pavement and check for a wall to follow. Soon enough he’d come upon the Star Bar, recognizable by its curved frontispiece. He just needed to keep his cool and keep moving.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until he reached the curb and stopped walking. By then the soft footfalls were not the only sounds in his desert of sensation. Someone was clapping their hands together in slow, restrained applause. He felt shivers running down his spine and suddenly his mouth was wide open. His heart began to beat rapidly with the fear that this new sound brought with it. But there was something else that made his hair stand on end.

The clapping stopped. “Well done.” The voice was strangely familiar. A woman. A voice he recognized, but couldn’t believe. “I thought you would stay on the bridge. I came to meet you there. I should have known better.”

It had been a long time since he’d heard her voice, but he knew immediately who it was and who it just could not possibly be. He found the relief and joy flooding his soul despite the knowledge of how impossible it all was.