‘OLDE’ HULL by Christopher Skolik

‘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 where 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
thru 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 magick 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 where 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 cued 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 thru 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-cant 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. Whatver…” And he was gone. Just the traffic
grey. Martin paused, shrugged to himself. Walked on.

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