Victor tries to make the most of his miserable life as a Manchester mill worker in the early 1800s.
Image generated with OpenAIVictor trudges along the canal, the quickest route to work. The journey generally takes him about thirty minutes. Every now and then he steps aside and lets men or horses pass by, pulling barges to or from the many mills. The canal is the only sign of nature in an otherwise wholly industrial district. Often even the sky cannot be seen for clouds of greyish, brown filth that spew from a thousand chimneys rising high overhead. But this is all he knows, all he remembers. So he doesn’t miss green, blue, orange. He only knows grey, brown, black. The colour of the clothes every worker wears, the factories where everyone works. The colour of morning light today. A thin drizzle gently falls on his upturned face. From this angle, he only sees the tops of mill towers, the smoke billowing out in swollen clumps. In his periphery he sees the blurred form of earth. For a second he thinks he sees steel blue through grey, but then it’s gone. Victor raises a hand to wipe water from his eyes. It comes away streaked brown by the ever-present dirt. He raises it and sniffs. Chemicals, a smell of burnt coal. He walks on. Victor tells himself he’s not a depressed soul, he’s generally quite cheerful. Enjoys a good smoke during lunch break, reads the newspaper in the evening, chats with Dad, plays with Dot. The reality is there’s not much to be cheerful about. He looks down at his hands, turns them over, notices soot and dirt – part of his fingernails now. No amount of scrubbing ever removes it. The fingers: long and delicate, hairless, nails narrow and thin, easily broken. He clenches fists a few times to warm them, forcing a little life into stiff joints. It occurs to him that he’s never broken any bones. Even after five years working in the mill, his fragile body is still in relatively good condition. He shoves hands into deep trouser pockets and walks on, past rows and rows of identical houses, each disgorging identical workers, on their way to identical jobs. Faces point down, focusing on the floor, just get through the day.
He’s tired. Didn’t sleep well last night. Too cold, then too hot. His dreams. So many of them. He sometimes wonders if he’s on the border of insanity. He recalls most of his dreams vividly, and they are truly insane. Things he’s never seen before, beautiful and horrific scenes somehow fused together. Like someone took different plays, ripped the pages out at random and then spliced them back together again. No beginnings or ends. No logical transition. And yet he accepts them as perfectly normal.
He arrives at one of many tunnels between home and work. It’s not long, about fifteen metres, empty and dark, with a low ceiling, just high enough to permit passage. Stooping down, he edges along in the dim light, recalling the young chap lying on his back, balanced on a rickety old plank. The tunnels are too narrow and low for a cart horse to pull the barge, so it’s up to him and his mate on the other side. They lie atop the barge on a plank, legs up against the tunnel walls, slowly pushing their way along. About halfway, one of the men (Hector was his name, he remembers because of how strange it sounded) wobbles and falls off into the narrow space beside the barge. In the dark, he hears hands scrabbling on the smooth side of the boat, a cry for help. The barge gently moves over, crushing him against the wall. Victor swears he hears the sound of his back breaking, although that could have just been the barge hitting the wall. He has to find an alternative route to work that day. He wants to stay and find out if the fellow is ok, but he hates to be late and will no doubt get an earful from Ernie if he is. So, as the other men scramble around, shouting and cursing, he walks back up the path, the voices fading to indistinguishable noise.
Victor gets to work at 8:27, walks in through the mill’s large double doors, dashes up the wide stairway past identical clones as the morning whistle blows. For four hours his mind shuts down, muscle memory taking over. All sense of time compresses, and then he’s outside, leaning against the wall, halfheartedly chewing on an apple. The sound of people talking drifts unbidden into his ears. A cacophony of nonsense, jumbled together. Realities all bouncing off each other, merging, colliding. It sounds like “balalabala,” over and over again, ducks and geese and running water. Victor feels truly alone among all that chatter. A voice pierces through, forcing itself to be understood.
“Morning Vic, another chilly one, eh?” George Stores, Victor’s mind registers. He blinks, looks over into the perpetually smiling face of his next-door neighbour standing next to him, back against the wall, arms folded in front.
“Didn’t see you this morning, you oversleep?”
“What? Oh. Yeah.”
“Late night?”
“I didn’t sleep well. Bad dreams.”
“I never remember my dreams. What happened?” George asks.
I can never forget my dreams, wish I could, thinks Victor.
“Doesn’t matter,” Victor says, hoping George will drop the subject.
He’d dreamt of a small, transparent child, sitting in a heart of blazing fire. His skin was glass, eyes chunks of coal, glowing faintly in the raging heat. He’d seen him before, many times. His body suffused with light, painful to look at. When he spoke, a million voices shouted in fury. He’d clamped hands over ears but the sound penetrated his mind, wiped out thought, intention and will.
“You off to the pub tonight?” Victor asks, forcing his mind from the nightmare.
“You know it, pal. You comin’?”
“I might, if Dot’s feelin’ alright.”
“What’s up with her?” George inquires.
Victor pictures his little sister, lying in bed, deathly white face, sweat dripping down her forehead. She’d got progressively worse over the past month or so, and the family has no clue what the cause is. There’s no doctor in Ancoats, and certainly not a hospital. Any sickness has to be dealt with using whatever paltry knowledge of medicine exists in the family or among neighbours, which generally amounted to a damp flannel on the forehead and a shot of whisky whenever the pain gets too much.
“No idea,” replies Victor.
“I’m sure she’ll pick up, she’s a tough one your Dot.”
George gives Victor an optimistic grin, pats him on the shoulder and wanders off.
Well now you’ve said that, no doubt she will, you stupid bastard, thinks Victor.
He’d known George for as long as he could remember. He’d always been that way: everything would be ok, it would all turn out for the best. As if he somehow experienced a different reality to the one the rest of them did. They’d grown up on the same street, playing, fighting, talking shit. They looked out for each other. George had got him the job at New Old Mill, five long years ago. Victor was fifteen at the time.
Has it only been five years? Seems like forever, thinks Victor.
That time seemed to blur together, no one event standing out, but rather a slowly churning fog of mundanity.
Could be worse I guess, he muses.
So far, nothing has gone terribly wrong in his life, apart from his mum dying, but that had been when he was ten and the pain of memory is now faded, calloused over. He still has most of his teeth, no major illnesses, his brain works ok, he’s got a job, money coming in. All in all, not bad going. And yet here he is, standing in this dirty yard, in this grey city, about to go and experience another six hours of mind-numbing tedium. He throws the half-eaten apple over his shoulder, over the wall behind him, and into the canal. He ambles back into the building, up the stairs, to his station, allowing his mind to unfocus once more.
Then he’s in the pub, dim lights glinting off the pint in front of him, a more muted “balalabala” in the background undulating with the swish of beer being consumed. Merry George beside him at the bar, merrier than usual following his third pint. Victor stares down into his glass, murky brown liquid sat there expectantly. He raises his eyes to the mirror behind the bar. Tired, boney white face, greasy black hair. He leers at the image before him, uneven yellow teeth behind tight, thin lips.
“What’re you smiling at?” drawls an Irish accent across from him.
Victor blinks, glances over, sees a heavy-set bearded man glaring in open hostility at him. He vaguely recognises him, can’t quite remember from where.
Bloody paddies comin’ over here takin’ our jobs, thinks Victor.
He ignores the man and turns around on his bar stool. Over the past few years there’s been an influx of Irish and Italians moving in, entire streets taken over by them, fighting for territory, brawling with anyone getting in their way. Come over hoping for a better life, only to find it’s just as shit as back home.
Why didn’t they bloody stay there then? he thinks.
Suddenly the man is in front of him, up in his face.
“Hey you, I asked you a question: what are you smiling at?”
Victor smells whisky on his breath, mixed with a pungent tang of sweat. His voice is oddly high-pitched, and Victor can’t help but smirk. This only infuriates the man, and he moves closer, till their noses are nearly touching. Victor sees blackheads and pockmarks on the wide face, his vivid green eyes completely surrounded by yellowish white. But he looks strong, hard, like he’s seen his fair share of bar brawls. Victor on the other hand isn’t a strong man, or a particularly brave one. He begins to look around nervously, trying to identify possible escape routes. Like ripples in a pond getting larger and larger, people around them are beginning to stop what they’re doing and take notice of the new entertainment on offer.
“Hey mate, lemme get the next round, eh?” George chimes in, his ever-present smile trying to wedge itself into the awkward space between Victor’s and the man’s faces.
The man refuses to look over, his eyes fixed on Victor’s now downcast face.
“Don’t mind him, he’s a bit simple, that’s all. Got dropped as a baby, ya know?” George nudges the man, winking and smirking as if to say we all know some poor bastard like this don’t we?
After a painfully long moment, the man looks over at George, then at the barman, who wears the bored expression of one who sees this kind of thing on a daily basis.
“Double whisky,” he grunts. “On him.”
The barman pours the drink and the man, with a final scowl at Victor, snatches it up off the bar and slumps back to his corner.
“Why’d you say that?” Victor demands.
“Because you were about to get your arse handed to you. You need to be a bit more careful my friend, there’ll soon be more of them than us.”
“Hmph,” Victor mutters.
“Come on, cheer up, I’ll get the next one, even if you do owe me already,” grins George.
Victor hates to admit it, but George is a decent bloke, friendly, generous. He scowls to himself. All the things I’m not, he thinks.
“Nah, I’m alright, I’m off now anyway, see you tomorrow.”
Victor glugs down the remaining beer, stands and begins walking toward the door. A few steps in, he turns to look over his shoulder at George.
“Thanks, by the way,” he says half-heartedly, and frowns. George doesn’t hear, he’s already turning back to his friends, as if Victor suddenly stops existing as soon as he’s out of George’s immediate vicinity. Victor exits the pub, ducking under the low door and out into an usually warm autumn evening.
The street lights barely cut through the dark, illuminating small, yellow circles directly beneath them. The ever-present smog hangs, clogging up the street like fat. People appear and disappear as they walk along the street, all featureless silhouettes of varying shape, faces lost in shadow.
I wonder if they really only exist when I look at them, he thinks.
He watches a couple walking toward him, arguing about something. As they approach, the blunt sounds of conflict suddenly coalesce into words.
“…told you already, I’m gonna get the money as soon as -“
“As soon as what eh?” the girl cuts him off. “As soon as you get your fat arse up off the sofa and go get a bloody job?”
Victor catches a glimpse of the girl’s livid face as they walk past, completely ignoring him. A throbbing blue vein pulses on her forehead.
“You know damn well that my legs…” then the sound dissolves back into noise and they are gone, turning off into a side street and out of view.
Victor plods along the street, the noises of the pub soon gone, and he is in silence, broken only by the footsteps of the occasional passerby. The street is narrow and cramped, with a long line of houses stretching out of view, their front doors opening directly onto the pavement. Each house is identical, two up, two down. No lights from within, most will be asleep by now. Nothing to see here, he quickens the pace, only thinking of his bed.
He enters his home to frantic motion, there’s a taste of panic in the air. Sweat, worry, fear.
“Where the hell have you been?” his Dad shouts.
“What’s wrong?” the fear instantly rising in Victor.
“It’s Dot, she’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“Shit, what’re we gonna do?” Victor looks pointlessly round the room, there’s nothing here that will help, and even if there was, neither of them would have a clue what to do with it. His dad looks angry, angry and helpless, and scared. He stands there, clenching and unclenching fists, breathing hard, paralysed in indecision.
“She’s burning up, get some towels and cold water, as cold as you can get it,” he says finally.
He rushes back up the narrow staircase. Victor hears him above, talking to his sister, but he can’t make out the words. He goes through to the cramped kitchen, flicking on the light as he enters. A single bulb throws the dark room into sharp relief. He grabs a cracked jug from a shelf and shoves it under the tap, twisting the handle until a thin gurgle of brownish liquid begins to stutter out. After a moment it clears a little and with a moan, the plumbing comes to life. Lukewarm water gushes into the jug and while it fills he searches for towels. He finds some cleanish dishcloths under the sink, smells them cautiously. With the jug full, he snatches it up along with the cloths and dashes out into the front room, then upstairs to his and Dot’s room.
The room is dark, a small lamp next to the bed, emitting weak light. His dad kneels by the bed holding Dot’s hand and trying to speak reassuringly to her. He isn’t one for talking at the best of times so he’s no idea what to say, just keeps repeating, “It’ll be alright, it’s ok,” over and over again, as if trying to convince himself more than anything else. It’s not working though, he looks more scared than ever. They both know no help is coming, it’s just them, that’s all it ever was. As Victor approaches the bed, he can’t help gasping in shock. His sister looks dead already, she’s grey, eyes shut, breath inaudible. Her chest rises unsteadily under the blanket, falls, then after a long moment rises again. He moves closer, dipping the dishcloth into the jug of water. He draws it out, squeezing the excess liquid out, and places it on her forehead. His fingers touch the skin, it’s burning, hotter than he thought possible. His eyes widen in disbelief, mouth falls open, he can’t speak.
She’s only twelve, it’s not fair, he curses to himself.
All he can think is she’s got the same thing his mum had before she died. That was nearly ten years ago. She’d faded over the space of a few weeks, no explanation, no reason, then she was gone. Now it’s happening to Dot.
Not fair! he rages.
He forces himself to calm down, leans closer until their faces are only inches apart. There’s a smell of death, acrid breath, sweat, excrement. He can’t help but draw away, as if some invisible force physically pushes him. “…Dot…” he hasn’t got any words. He scans her face; there’s a faint look of worry there, as if she’s having a bad dream but is too weak to fully react to it. Her cheeks are flushed, lips have a bluish hue despite her fever. Dark strands of hair hang limply, stuck to her face and neck. He uses the cloth to wipe hair away from her skin. He looks over at his father for something, some help, reassurance; there is none. His dad begins to mumble something, a prayer maybe? He can’t tell, the words are unfamiliar. They’d stopped going to church when Mum died, she’d been the one that made them go, and without her, there didn’t seem much point. Victor lifts the cloth from Dot’s forehead, dips it into the jug and places it gently back down. Victor hears a breath leave Dot, it just keeps going as if all life is leaving her body. And then it stops. It doesn’t finish like he expected, doesn’t come to a graceful conclusion. It just stops. Dots mouth is slightly open, her features slack.
“Dot?” Victor whispers, almost afraid to speak.
“She’s gone, son,” says Dad.
Victor’s brain can’t understand this statement. How can someone be there one moment and the next not be? One minute a person, then not a person. Victor screws up his eyes, jaws clenching, willing things to be different. He opens them, she’s still dead. He’s still there in the little, dark room, with his dad and his dead sister. It’s too much, he can’t be here. He jumps up, racing out of the room, downstairs, out the front door and into the night. He runs down the road, heading out toward the canal. He runs blindly, not caring where, he just needs to get away, escape.
The air is thick with smog, the same as most nights, and visibility has shrunk to almost nothing. Running alongside the canal, his feet slipping on loose dirt and thin patches of sickly looking grass, he reaches a low tunnel. He’s just about to duck under it when he senses people coming the other way.
Why is it whenever he wants to get past there’s always someone at that exact moment wanting to come the opposite way? Doesn’t matter what time of day or night. He skids to a halt before the tunnel as three dark figures emerge out of pitch blackness. Something about them makes him involuntarily move back a few steps. He recognises the first one from the pub. Victor always remembers faces and this one in particular would be hard to forget. Even in the dark, the man’s eyes are a striking green, a look of cruel delight on his face as recognition registers.
“Well now, here’s something, it’s the smiling retard,” he turns, gesturing to his mates.
The other two look over, already sizing him up. They’re hungry for violence, Victor can smell it in the air.
“What?” Victor replies, then recalls their exchange.
He’d narrowly avoided a fight then, but now, with no one else around, the chances of avoiding it are gone. Trying to control the adrenaline flooding his system, Victor’s scrotum contracts. He wants to run but his legs feel like liquid.
“Don’t you understand your own language now, ya stupid fecker?” the man drawls.
The others are smiling now, grinning to each other, confident.
I’m going to get beaten up, Victor thinks. I’ve never been beaten up before.
The thought turns over and over in his head. He’s never broken a bone, or had one broken, never had anything threaten his life. What if they’ve got knives? What if he dies tonight, just like Dot? By the time he finishes imagining scenarios, one of the men, considerably bulkier than the other two, has moved round behind him, blocking his escape. Now panic is beginning to set in. The smiles are gone, replaced with anger, hunger, the will to inflict pain. Victor backs away and is shoved hard in the back, his neck snapping forward with the jolt. He starts to turn his head, and a crunch of fist smashes into the side of his face. He stumbles back, raising his hand to his face, wincing with pain. It feels like an explosion has just gone off in his skull. He’s dizzy, disoriented. He swings his other arm feebly. It connects with something but doesn’t appear to have any effect. There’s a laugh from somewhere down a corridor, a pitiless laugh of one who now knows he’s stronger. What feels like a tree trunk crashes into his stomach and his breath is gone, he’s down on the ground. Blows rain down on his back, legs, head as he instinctively curls up to try and limit the damage. Dull earthquakes shaking him apart. Pain feels distant, time slows, he’s got time to imagine the long-term damage being done to him, scaring him more than anything else. His teeth will be gone, bones broken and not healed properly, hobbling for the rest of his life. Abruptly the beating ends.
Is it over? he wonders. Maybe they got bored.
He gingerly lifts his head and tries to open his eyes. His left one has begun to throb, only opening a fraction. The man kneels down to face him, their noses almost touching as before.
“No one laughs at me,” he quietly growls.
Then Victor is being lifted by the men, lifted like some sack of rubbish to be thrown away. He is weightless, floating, flying, for a moment, and then a hard crack as his head hits the side wall of the canal and his body flops into the water. He is submerged, the far away laughter shifted lower in pitch as his body descends.
He thinks, It’s only about three feet or so, I can just stand up, but his body isn’t listening anymore. And he can’t tell what is up or down here. He thinks of Hector, the snap of his back, the feeble scrabbling at the canal walls. There’s a pressure on him, a need to breathe, but his mind tells him not to for some reason. It’s dark. No light. Cold.
I’m going to die alone, down here in the dark, he realises.
Part of him doesn’t want that to happen, but the rest of him just thinks what an effort it would take, and he really can’t be bothered anymore. He screws up his eyes, thinks of Dot lying there, the thread of her life now broken, her future life a separate thread flailing away in time, lost. Victor tries to hold the two ends together, to join them, but they’re like opposite ends of a magnet repelling each other. The pressure mounts, water enters his nose, his mouth. His lungs feel ready to explode.
Breathe! his body says. You can’t, you’ll die! his mind replies.
He struggles, twists, but his clothes are lead weights, legs like twigs. He opens his eyes wide, staring desperately up into blackness, his mind trying to escape. But he’s trapped in water, trapped behind prison bars of flesh and bone. He surrenders to the pressure and his universe ends.
He’s rudely awoken by a pair of trousers hitting his head. Much softer than that fist, he sleepily seems to remember. “Come on you, you can’t sleep all day,” a child’s soft voice says. Dot grins over at him from the doorway. She walks out, he hears light footsteps on the stairs, a door opens below.
“Love, is he up yet?” a gentle bass voice says below. A higher pitched voice replies but he can’t make out the words. Like trying to snatch at the remnants of a dream, he sees a flash of Dot’s deathly grey face, the pressure on his lungs. He turns over and goes back to sleep.
