Excerpts: BLACKOUT ZONES

Blackout Zones is Mark Bruce’s book of short stories, available on Amazon. Read on for excerpts from 3 of the stories -

BLACKOUT ZONES

You know that beautiful metallic sound you can hear sometimes, nostalgia and fear, full of youth. Well Nassau can hear that, and the streets are wet; neon lights lonely, tacky, trying to blink their dead promises in the night while everything rattles in the wind. Pawn shops, grills drawn down over windows greasy and sad; analogue stuff, wires, chunky, out of date equipment. Girders of structures cruel and cold.
  This is a time soon to come, and it is older than Now – thin layers of Now shredded down to reveal what was there before; how buildings looked before money was chucked at everything and sad and seedy occupations were scooped out or walled in.
  When the zones first crushed in, bending everything out of kilt, there were days and nights of madness; people lurching, laughing, screaming, terror filled. They ran over each other like a tin of scorpions, jabbing, hacking one another. And whoever hasn’t fled the lost zones, adapts, accepts the city like a scattered aftermath of a jailbreak, no wardens and everyone a criminal of sorts. Smashed telephone booths are once more fragile lifelines and a crumpled dollar’ll get you more than it used to. You get some wheels they’ll be old and splutter with a heavy engine like it’s full of mud and trundle along with menace. And everything is ripped, laid with graffiti, while street lamps that remain do little to tell you the way.
  Nassau feels like a teenager lashed by a ruthless night, cold on her ebony skin, heart alive and a magic smell in the air. The music hall lies ahead, tiled front shredded like time has raked it with claws, and from inside comes the tinkling of chipped piano keys. The sound comes with a wind she latches on to, it warms her and she is drawn to the once splendid doors; an entrance before which carriages would once have pulled up, gentlemen in top hats and capes, ladies in long dresses and pearls. Nassau can hear the clip clop of hooves; restrained, excited chatter; greetings, introductions, cockney callings. But now the great wooden doors hang open, falling from their hinges, and inside the foyer is musty, abandoned.
  In the auditorium a few ragged people hobble through dance routines, fires in corners, curtains pulled down. There is a woman at the piano, straight backed, elegant, black hair tied up, some strands loose over her forehead. She is playing something different now, a Russian peasant song, sad and alcohol driven. She lingers on the last notes then sighs, scrapes back the stool and stands, looks over her shoulder at Nassau.
  Dressing room upstairs, outside sound muffled. There is scientific equipment around, Victorian, gothic, like out of a Hammer vault. The Russian sighs again, regards herself in the mirror, a tired performer. Her blue eyes catch Nassau’s in the reflection. There is a bottle of vodka on the table, she pours herself a shot, offers it to Nassau who slowly shakes her head.
  “Are you sure no one followed you here?” Nassau asks.
  “Just relax,” the Russian says, accent lacing the English words with dry humour. “I’ll bring you a cup of tea?” Spark in her eyes, a wise Russian princess. She lights a cigarette and her eyes glaze over with elsewhere thoughts. It is beginning to rain on the black streets outside. She listens, looks upwards as if it reminds her of something. “I used to dance,” she says, “but … pfft,” she pouts, shrugs her shoulders. “I had such things taken from me. The things I have had to do, the things I do now … they are not my fault. No …” she repeats to herself, “not my fault . . .” and she is saddened by it all.
  The two women sit and listen to the night, rain falling and thunder rocking across the sky. Distant flames of more inhabited areas. Sounds of slow fleeing, trickles of exodus in the lost zones. The lights are low in the room, corners dark like a Victorian magic show.
  “You know, you have a wonderful colour to your skin,” the Russian says. “Look.” and she holds out her arm beside Nassau’s.    “Mine is like milk next to yours.” Their arms touch for a moment. Nassau feels the Russian’s skin stroke hers like ice. “You have much history of slavery,” the woman says. “It is where you got your strength from. All work and no reward . . .”
  Nassau draws her arm away.
  “We are not so disimiliar, you and I,” the Russian says, “we both hate what we are.”
  Nassau doesn’t reply. They sit silently for a while.
  The Russian puts out her cigarette and stands.
  “I am ready now,” she says.
  And they head out through the backstage passages and into the glistening streets.

AMERICAN GIRL

The father was at the head of the table wearing a Nazi blue suit. He screwed up his eyes and clasped his hands together. Then he asked if I’d like to say grace. My hands went clammy and I felt suddenly cold as the family bowed their heads and waited, the American girl stroking my leg under the table. The only grace I could remember was what I’d learnt at school. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful . . .” I wanted to do better than that and was about to try and add something – some kind of gratitude to my hosts but suddenly everyone snapped out of their contemplation and started dishing out the food. There was the sound of urgent clattering, serving spoons on dishes. I didn’t know if my grace had been acceptable or just another thing to be blanked out. There was no alcohol served with the meal. One thing I will say though – the amount they ate – I knew I was never going to go hungry in that house.
  After dinner the American girl asked if she could borrow the pick-up. And off we went into town, some of her brothers and sisters in the back, of which it became clear she was the oldest. We cruised this road full of cowboys and cowgirls, all bouncing on trucks and whooping. They had the same bounce as the girl, who nodded her head, chewed her gum as we drove through the crowd. We went into a bar and started to drink beer – some of the younger ones having to stay outside and hang out in the parking lot. The beer was like water and I had to neck it to even start feeling as drunk as I needed to be. A blues band was playing – all Texas riffs which I love and everyone was shouting at each other above the music. A few people shouted questions at me and they all thought my accent was great. We had a good time all round and drove home with the radio blaring out.
  As we neared the house the American girl switched off the radio.
  “If Daddy’s still up, don’t let on we’ve been drinking, OK?” she said, and before I could reply she’d pulled up and jumped out the truck.

VANITY V

Billboards, pictures of young people everywhere flaunting their processed beauty, petulant and superior or sparkly eyed in sunlight with sprayed on tans. And below, the people in grey going to and from places, downtrodden and dejected, passing videos in shop windows – girls pumping their hips. Cosmetic shops, clothes shops – the bold everywhere like gods and goddesses; an elite of shiny legs and six-packs looking down their noses at the mortals grey as pigeons or those dirty mice that scuttle between the rails of the tube.
  Susie stood with the office workers on the train platform, a box of stuff from her desk clutched to her chest. The workers’ eyes – tired and glazed, vaguely looked at adverts that seeped in subconsciously – everywhere a better life taunting. Susie stared down, filling vacant minutes waiting on a train with wondering who’d put the grill in the platform floor, when they’d done it, whether that worker was dead or still alive. She often thought of such things. Loops of thoughts in nothing time, like the tube – going round and round.
  She was crossing the bridge, in the twilight, trains rattling by beside her. Some people were staring out across the city, others peered down at the water. They had looks of bewilderment in their eyes and then dread as if a terrible realisation had crept up on them. They looked battered by the wind, but it was their lives that had shaken them through to their bones. Susie looked at the box of possessions in her hands. A sadness welled in her chest and she couldn’t shake it away. Her possessions were pathetic – tiny pointless pieces of her history, dwarfed by the city, the world outside. She went to the railings and dropped the box into the history of the river. The river swallowed her things callously and the current went on its way. Nothing meant anything and Susie could feel that she was going to cry.