'Olde' Hull By Christopher Skolik

Martin sat on the wall, low, it was covered in graffiti; a matrix of over written names and messages to some dead junky, written over and over. Felt as though the sentiments were actually holding the place together, the place made up of the memories of those who knew Matt Kirk. Martin didn't. But he still felt the depths of this place. Was there still enough of Old Hull left to lead Martin back into a better past? Had all the dark, time-stained alleys, cobbles breaking through from the past to the present, memory haunted warehouses been swept up by developers and councillors desperate to make this place spiritually identical to all others?

Of course not; there was magic here - its spirit dark, deep, in the people who had faced down Nazi bombs, deluge, cod war, the industrial genocide of Thatcher, devastation of heroin that swept into the void left by decimated dreams of the population.

No, there were traces, like a tree Martin could see, its wide open winter spread clutching at crushing mountain range clouds which he recalled climbing when the car park that now surrounded it was a wonderland maze of bombed buildings and rubble. Utterly lethal, but such joy back there in his childhood. Trace the branches back to a past ... A past where every Chymist and Druggist shop would spill golden light across damp twilight cobbles, waiting in line with William Wilberforce's maid; a ready smile and bottle of laudanum or morphine for the ask.

Where fleets of phantom whaling vessels and fishing smacks queued the Humber's depths, between sand bank and hope, where the relatives stand (almost as if their collective concern had conjured up their loved ones) a whole world of superstition and innuendo to keep loved ones safe against the vast endless elemental forces that had hypnotised their men's souls, so that despite the feeble financial inducements they kept returning to parry with Poseidon. 'Got a light bro?'

Martin jumped, he was back in the present. It felt like a slab of lead falling through his soul. Back into a present coated with awful methadone stickiness, lame 'prestige' building projects, sky hazed over by diagonal grid of airplane trails (an experiment to cut skin cancer rates?). Martin patted down his pockets for the matches (in all his years he had never adapted to smoking heroin with a lighter). The kid, scally, cute, eyes open - no bullshit or ugly manipulating crap going on within him despite his probable criminal record.

He pulled back suddenly at the sight of the matches, like a vampire exposed to daylight - 'Nah - can't use em. Allergic to sulphur!' ''Allergic to sulphur?' Martin had never heard of such a thing. 'Yeah ... sets me chest off.' 'Shit. Better hope you're not headin' to hell then.' The lad blanked that, 'Cough me lungs up.' 'Oh. Sorry mate.' 'Yeah. Whatever ...' And he was gone. Just the traffic grey. Martin paused, shrugged to himself ...

Copyright © 2010  Christopher Skolik

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