The Last Man in Space

He caught her eye again this morning, a touch of stardust playing around the iris.

Mark smiled awkwardly, cursing the day Baldwin and Black rearranged the office so their desks were now facing each other. Before that, he could just see the back of Emma's head, their eyes occasionally meeting on the return trip from the drinks machine. Sometimes there were fumbling attempts at conversation, a few words shared about tenancy agreements or the rank filter coffee. Nothing substantial, but enough for Mark to scurry apologetically back to the safety of his swivel chair. Now they were locked in a perpetual face-off, the constant reminder of her existence invading the boundaries of his universe.

Emma had only been with the firm for a couple of months, and on her arrival had been swiftly deployed to the Maintenance Department alongside Mark. Maintenance was the training ground for letting agency employees, and a graveyard for those who lacked the bottle to become fully-fledged property agents. Mark was in his mid-thirties and had yet to learn how to drive, so he was relegated to answering calls from irate tenants. He didn't care much for the job, but his shyness made him happy to stay in mission control while others took the risks of setting foot on alien terrain.

Emma, on the other hand, was a bold emissary exploring the frontiers of Baldwin and Black's universe. She shadowed Mark's line-manager, Peter - a jobsworth whose pursuit of excellence in property upkeep wouldn't have seemed out of place in Prohibition-era Chicago. Mark was just happy to get Peter out of the office for a few hours, and if it meant taking Emma with him then all the better. But even on those occasions, Mark's eyes would drift to her empty chair and the clutter of personal effects fighting for space on her desk: amongst them a framed photograph, a Dalek toy and a coffee mug bearing the legend 'Who Needs A Man When You've Got The Bean!'. He felt a strange sensation, similar to when he was a child and looked underneath his sister's bed, or took a crafty peek at the copy of Mayfair his older brother found in the bin behind the supermarket. But this curiosity was now tinged with unease. No matter how much Mark tried to resist, he was being pulled further into Emma's orbit.

 

Knock-off time was six o'clock, and Mark was glad to exchange the stuffy claustrophobia of the office for the refreshing pinch of a winter's evening. Emma passed him on the steps leading down to the street. She was muffled in a thick scarf, a soft beanie hat pulled over her ears. She hesitated and turned back to him.

"Cold, innit?" she shivered.

"Yeah!" Mark replied, finding himself drawn into her gaze. "You doing anything tonight?"

"Dance class," she chuckled. "But when it's like this-"

"I know!" he said nervously. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," she said cheerfully. "Have a nice night!"

"Yeah," Mark grunted, and began the short walk to the bus stop, looking over his shoulder just in time to see Emma look back at him.

 

Mark gazed out of the bus window at the stretch of darkness above the thin canopy of clouds. A radio fizzed with static. The bus transformed into a command module and, with a roar of liquid nitrogen, was soaring clean out of the Earth's atmosphere. His fellow passengers melted away and he was free. Free from the trappings of everyday life, floating in the void beyond; a wider universe untouched by lease-holdings, coffee machines and - those eyes.

A ringtone suddenly echoed in his ear, and a chatty 16-year-old with a Jafaican accent joined him in the cockpit. The smell of stale tobacco smoke made him turn round to find a balding middle-aged man reading a copy of The Sun. A pinging noise echoed through the cramped command module and the wall-mounted central computer displayed the word 'STOPPING'. An elderly lady climbed through the airlock, propped herself against the driver's booth and asked if he stopped at Wisbeach. Mark sighed and turned to look out the window again.

 

Mark's fridge was full of ready meals. He fork-pricked the plastic skin of a lasagne, set the microwave timer and opened a can of lager. When the meal was ready he wandered towards the front room. The curtains were wide open. Framed pictures of Alexey Leonov, Yuri Gagarin and Michael Collins were carefully arranged on the mantlepiece. He sat by the window and ate his supper, reflecting on whether or not astronauts used microwaves.

The finer points of space exploration eluded Mark. Only the duller parts of The Usborne Book of Space, his childhood bible, were taken up with facts and figures. He was drawn more to the garish illustrations, particularly that of a space-walking astronaut; a tiny white speck on a flex of wire, showered in the light of distant star systems. He wanted so much to be that astronaut, but circumstances decided against it.

 

Next morning at Baldwin and Black, Mark was called into the branch manager's office. Emma stood by Mr. Fuller's desk. Mark froze, his mind racing through all their brief glances and conversations, trying to recall if his behaviour had been inappropriate. She smiled at him and he relaxed. Fuller offered a few shallow pleasantries and informed them that Peter had phoned in sick. Unfortunately for Baldwin and Black, this posed a problem as Peter was due to attend a series of property inspections. Since the company had sent letters to tenants informing them of their arrival, Fuller decided the inspections should go ahead. As Emma was still in her probationary period, Fuller chose Mark to act as her supervisor.

Mark felt a sudden wave of nausea, a cross between the apprehension and exhilaration that Leonov must've felt when he took his first tentative steps outside the Voskhod. Leonov, however, was about to embrace infinity - not climb into a Vauxhall Corsa and poke his nose into other people's living arrangements. Three properties, six apartments in each; eighteen private universes, boxed up and cut off from the wider continuity of the cosmos. On top of that was the prospect of spending a whole day with Emma, making his usual ham-fisted attempts at small talk.

The walk to Emma's car seemed to take place in slow motion. Mark broke the silence to comment how cold it was. Emma agreed, adding that at least it wasn't windy. Mark thought for a moment and asked if she went to dance class. She couldn't as her mum was ill, and no one was available to look after Charlie. That's her little boy. He's big on Doctor Who apparently, which means Emma has to be. She asked Mark if he watched it. Mark shrugged that it was kid's stuff, trying to forget that his heavily sellotaped copy of The Usborne Book of Space still took pride of place on his bookshelf.

The first two properties were Edwardian semi-detached houses converted into bedsits. Emma and Mark let themselves in. They knocked on the door of the first apartment and a middle-aged woman answered. Emma asked if there were any maintenance issues to report while Mark checked out the flat's condition.

It was a standard one-room bedsit with kitchen facilities and dreary beige wallpaper. There were a number of paintings mounted on the wall, abstract images composed of thick, richly-coloured oils. On the bookshelf were biographies of Malevich, Kandinsky and Auerbach. Mark was tempted to ask the woman if she'd painted the works herself but decided against it. What struck him was how they obliterated the cramped, joyless feel of the room. He reflected on the barrenness of his own living quarters, his astronaut heroes mocking him with self-satisfied grins. When they finished the second block, he suggested to Emma they should have lunch.

They pulled into a greasy spoon and ordered toasted sandwiches. Mark tried to qualify his earlier statement about Doctor Who, softening his opinion to say that it's okay for what it is. Emma said she preferred watching documentaries, which Mark enthusiastically concurred with. He asked if she'd seen Carl Sagan's Cosmos and began jabbering about black holes. She didn't seem bored, Mark noticed; she held him with her gaze the whole time.

The conversation inevitably drifted to Baldwin and Black. Emma asked Mark how long he'd worked there. He replied that it was about ten years before intimating he had other things in the pipeline, but wasn't sure if they were going to come off so he couldn't really talk about them. Emma smiled.

"You're very guarded sometimes," she said. "Like Charlie when he doesn't want to show me his school report."

"No," Mark said defensively. "There's just a load of other stuff I'm thinking about doing." Then he caught the warm beam of her eyes again. They started laughing. Mark watched as Emma raised a hand to cover her mouth.

"What do you want to do?" Emma said, recovering herself. Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"What, like a job?" he asked.

"If you could do anything," Emma offered. "I always wanted to be a dancer, but then I got pregnant with Charlie and..." She bowed her head for a moment. "Oh, but I love him to bits," she continued. "I wouldn't change that for anything."

Mark asked if she was married. Emma shook her head. Charlie's dad was a boyfriend from college, and when she got pregnant he didn't want to know. She gave up her studies to become a full-time mum. When Charlie reached school-age, she worked at a supermarket and took evening classes. After graduating, she applied for a hundred jobs before Baldwin and Black came along. She said she liked it but thought Peter was a tool. Mark mentioned the tedious anecdotes about the T.A.. Emma said he was probably the cleaner. They laughed again.

"So go on," Emma said, leaning closer across the table. "What do you really want to do?"

Mark made himself look Emma straight in the eye and told her how, as a child, he wanted to be an astronaut; told her how his dream broke apart after leaving the launching pad. How it crashed into the ocean to float on the waves forever. He told her about the family holiday when he was eleven, the trip to Florida he was so looking forward to. How he got airsick, and had to endure the taunts of his brother and sister calling him "Barfy Marky". For the first time, he was putting all this in context. And he was laughing. Emma's smile grew warmer with each chuckle. Then there was silence, the pair looking at each other in quiet reflection.

 

It was late afternoon when Mark and Emma returned to Baldwin and Black. They filed the reports, called the appropriate agencies for repair work and dealt with the backlog of emails and phone messages. Mark asked Emma if she wanted a refill from the drinks machine. On his way back, she showed him the framed photograph of her and Charlie. When it got to knocking-off time, they left through the front entrance together.

"I'd give you a lift but I've got to pick Charlie up from Andy's," Emma said. "He's a schoolfriend," she added suddenly.

"No worries," Mark said. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," she said. "Have a good night."

"You too," he replied. They lingered for a moment, taking each other in. When Emma left, Mark waited to see if she'd look back. She did.

The dark winter evening was drawing in. Mark stared up at the cluster of stars twinkling in the cavernous depths of the universe. They seemed so cold and distant now. He closed his eyes and made believe he could feel the steady spin of the Earth beneath his feet. Another spin, another day. And when he woke up tomorrow, he'd know exactly where he wanted to be.

The Seven Lamps of Architecture: A Ghost Story

[The following letters arrived in my possession by chance and represent the correspondence between E.J. Thripshaw, Professor of Architecture, and his colleague A.M. Soames, Professor of Anthropology. Both men were fellows of King's College, Cambridge and enjoyed a close friendship. Upon Soames' death in 1956, his extensive library of research and personal effects passed into the care of a distant relative of mine, also a fellow at the institution. The following is an unedited account of Thripshaw's expedition to Manchester to catalogue Gothic Revival architecture. Soames refused to discuss the incidents described in harrowing detail by Thripshaw, but the reader is invited to draw their own conclusions.]

LETTER I

(Thursday 22nd November, 1928)

SOAMES - My dear fellow, you asked me to keep you informed of my work on a daily basis so here is an account of the first - others to follow.

Manchester is a truly awful city. The skyline (assuming, of course, that it is the skyline - it is indeed where the rain is falling from) appears permanently black with smoke billowing from the chimneys of a seemingly endless complex of mills and factories. No sooner had I alighted from the train, a gentleman, if I am obliged to use that title, claimed to recognise me from school and asked if I would "borrow" him a penny. Another disgraceful display was the sight of a girl in a red cap wrestling with a dipsomaniac, the uncouth juvenile imploring me for assistance; a request, needless to say, that fell on deaf ears.

To avoid any further intrusions upon my person, I enlisted the services of a street car to take me to my lodgings. Had I attempted the journey on foot, I would have found myself caught in the trade union marches snaking their grubby way through the centre of the city. My attention was immediately drawn to their blazing red banners, even though their content ("Spirit of '26", "Remember the Clifton 139", and so on) proved utterly incomprehensible to me.

Upon arriving at my place of residence, the wretched souls with whom I am to share my ablutions regrettably made themselves known to me. They are mainly comprised of so-called "commercial travellers", prospective settlers to the city, and other waifs and strays. Had I been at all familiar with this Godforsaken blot upon the face of Northern England I would certainly have thought again before extending my study of Gothic architecture into the region. Regardless of the squalor, however, I endeavour to remain stoical. A week is not such a long time, and as far as the indigenous population is concerned I may have provided the subject matter for your next thesis.

As I prepare for supper I entertain myself with the evening edition of the Manchester Guardian: "Mill Closes Doors", "Local Girl Missing", "MacDonald Addresses Parliament". It does little to stele me for the shepherd's pie, I am afraid.

LETTER II

(Friday 23rd November, 1928)

SOAMES - Today marks the beginning of my studies. Rising early, taking great pains not to associate with the homunculi at my place of residence, I set out before breakfast and made my way to Pendlebury, a district of the neighbouring city, where I began surveying the features of St. Augustine's Church.

Designed by G.F. Bodley and completed in 1874, this impressive structure contains the most striking stained glass windows to be found in both the Decorative and Perpendicular styles I have yet seen in my travels. The Norman arch in the north elevation brings to mind the delicate renderings of William Kent's gatehouse at Hampton Court Palace, but sadly the interior is largely pedestrian and somewhat sullied by the insistence of its chief financier, Edward Stanley Hopwood, to donate the building to the local mining community. On a related subject, situated beneath the east window is a memorial for the men killed in the Clifton Hall Colliery explosion in 1885. Having connected this with the banners sported by the trade unionists yesterday I now understand the significance of the "Clifton 139".

After lunch, I went to visit St. Simon's Church, Salford - only to find, to my considerable agitation, that it has recently been demolished. As a morbid postscript, the body of a young girl was discovered this morning amid the debris. Ghastly business though it is, I am not interested in the transience of human life but the permanence of architectural achievement. It is this great tragedy, however, that has weighed heavily upon my mind for much of this evening: why tear down such a perfectly composed structure as St. Simon's?

With this sad thought, I retired to my lodgings and prepared myself for another evening spent in the dining area with people whose Lancastrian proclivities towards ponderous inflections of speech, insistence upon using an archaic dialect, and, unforgivably, inclination to forego the accurate pronunciation of the letter "t" (surely the crossbar avoids for this lax attitude towards correct articulation?) have thus far militated against me enjoying any satisfactory discourse with my fellow tenants.

LETTER III

(Saturday 24th November, 1928)

SOAMES - I have been host to the most peculiar dreams these last two nights. On the evening of my arrival I imagined myself to be running away from some shadowy assailant. I cannot now recall much of what ensured, but I remember the strangest experience of looking down at my shoes to discover they were those of a child. I did not recognise the streets through which I was being pursued, nor did I have any wish to when I abruptly awoke to see the golden light of dawn streaming through the net curtains.

Yesterday's dream was equally as unaccountable. I found myself trapped underground, my limbs rendered immobile by a great mound of earth and stone weighted upon me. Once again, I found the intensity of the dream so unbearable that I was swiftly forced from my slumber. Unable to return to sleep, I resumed my studies until daybreak, poring over the wealth of research I had accumulated during the previous day's perambulations.

Today I ventured to St. Wilfred's Church in Hulme, designed by the masterful A.W. Pugin. Completed in 1842, this monument to the Neo-Gothic style of architecture serves as a place of worship for the local Catholic populace. The baldacchino overhanging the altar is in need of considerable refurbishment lest it should fall into complete ruin, but the interior is otherwise a perfect example of the Perpendicular Middle Gothic aesthetic.

Moving northwards, I visited The Church of the Holy Name in Oxford Road, of which the octagonal tower is in the final stages of completion by A.G. Scott and, happily, corresponds to the original specifications of  J.A. Hanson and Son. I left feeling more than fulfilled, my notebook bursting with detail.

Glancing through the Manchester Guardian at supper I am confronted by articles as varied, not to mention sordid, as "Labour Crisis Heightens", "Police Investigate Girl's Murder - Witnesses Sought" and "Local Artist Exhibits in Paris". Such provincial trivialities provide an insight into a city festering under its own taciturn, shallow concerns. I do not pay much attention to these stories as I am too fixated upon my port of call tomorrow. St. Benedict's Church in Ardwick awaits me!

LETTER IV

(Sunday 25th November, 1928)

SOAMES - Last night I dreamt I was in a church, the like of which I have no recollection of visiting. I was alone and sat at the pew when the sound of distant children's laughter filled the air. Arising to find the source, I was drawn to the vestry where a girl in a red cap was crouched in the corner, sobbing piteously. The laughter stopped as I delicately approached her. I held out my hand in comfort when the bells unexpectedly began to toll. I momentarily looked overhead in shock, but when I looked back at the girl she was nowhere to be seen. The chimes from the belfry became louder and more piercing until I finally awoke. The landlady was knocking on my door quite fiercely, insisting that I either attend breakfast that very moment or wait until dinner to eat. Consulting my fob watch on the dresser, I discovered I had overslept by three hours. The unease this dream engendered would accompany me for the rest of the morning. But on to happier subjects now.

St. Benedict's has proven a most impressive structure. Built in 1880 by J.S. Crowther, it represents the High Victorian period of Gothic architecture. I was especially enamoured of both the intricacy of the wooden hammerbeam roof overhanging the interior and the terracotta stone dressing adorning the exterior. Indeed, having found this building so spectacular I was acutely aware that my next destination would prove disappointing - and quite right, too. All Souls Church, Ancoats, designed by William Hayley in 1840, is an utterly uninspired evocation of the Romanesque style; apart from the towered buttresses crowning the four corners of the building, with two additional towers of equal dominance marking the east front, I could find very little to recommend it. Having spent so much of the day at St. Benedict's, the winter night was now starting to set in and I decided to return to my lodgings. There being no street cars in sight, I elected to make my way on foot.

I passed a music hall where the sound of coarse joviality echoed through the misty gloom. It temporarily warmed me, but all the same I had the most curious feeling that I was being followed. I continued walking at a steady pace, but soon my instincts got the better of me and I found myself glancing back over my shoulder with every pensive step. As I reached the corner of Piccadilly, I turned my head once more and narrowly avoided bumping into a man whose head was shaped like a street lamp. As I made my apologies he stared at me with a strange intensity before shuffling away into the dark. Back at Oldfield Road I felt considerably more relaxed, albeit a little disconcerted. I am beginning to consider the possibility of taking a holiday once I return to the safety of King's College.

LETTER V

(Monday 26th November, 1928)

SOAMES - My last nightmare has the dubious honour of being the most disturbing I have yet experienced. I can scarcely bring myself to describe the details except that the child crying in the vestry from my previous dream returned to me in the most foul of circumstances. I had been out cataloguing another church when I returned to my lodgings. The gaslights were out in the whole building, and when I flicked the switch in my room, there in the bed was the girl's lifeless body. It had been subjected to the most wanton and depraved acts one can imagine. As I did the gentlemanly thing, pulling the blankets up to cover her face, the eyes moved to meet mine. I could not contain my horror and screamed. The next instant, I found myself sat bolt upright in bed with beads of cold sweat pouring from my brow.

I did not venture out today. Instead, I safely ensconced myself in my room and attempted to restore my thoughts to some semblance of order. The significance of my dreams continues to elude me. In a moment of quiet reflection I visualised, as you told me from your travels to Mali, the white, purifying skullcaps of the circumcised elders of the Bambari tribe and their devotion to the god Faro: the benevolent spirit that will eventually unmake and recreate the world into a place of whiteness. Not only this, but your account of the Sandhus in India and the white ash in which they cover themselves to ward off red-skinned demons.

But this is all, of course, superstitious nonsense. I am a rationalist so I must be rational. Tomorrow I will continue with my research.

LETTER VI

(Tuesday 27th November, 1928)

SOAMES - Again I decided to stay in my lodgings rather than venture into the heart of this cruel city. I am given to the most morbid speculation, and no matter how hard I have tried to focus upon my work and quench the fevered imaginings of the past few days I have found myself in the throes of anxiety at the thought of another disturbed night.

I dreamt of the girl in the red cap again. She was beckoning me towards the former site of St. Simon's church. I acquiesced, and gingerly followed her to what appeared to be a mass of rubble. No sooner had we arrived her face began to transform from that of an innocent child into something infinitely more horrifying. Her eyes became dark orbs set back in her pasty flesh and the surrounding features began to-

No, I cannot explain it. Except the look she gave me, my dear fellow, was more than I could bear. She was gazing into my very soul as though I alone was responsible. Suddenly she lurched forwards and it was then that I awoke.

I am not ashamed to say that this experience made my whole being shiver with fright. Yet this awful dream was not the end of the matter. After I had adequately composed myself, or so I thought, I found traces of soil upon the mattress and blankets - the distinct odour of damp earth and decay hanging in the air. This inexplicable occurrence has left me hardened in my resolve to leave behind this dismal city and the unhappy dreams it has evoked in me. I only pray I will last this final night through.

LETTER VII

(Wednesday 28th November, 1928)

SOAMES - I left the lodging house as soon as I could settle my bill. Wasting no time, I took a street car to Piccadilly Station. I saw once more the trade unionists with their red flags and accusatory glare in their eyes as the car passed their demonstration. I would only breathe a sigh of relief when the train pulled away from the platform, back towards Cambridge.

Feeling sufficiently relaxed as we made our way over the Pennines, I decided a little light relief was in order to ease my thoughts. It was then I was to be paid the most terrible fate of all. Upon opening my travel case to retrieve my treasured copy of John Ruskin's The Seven Lamps of Architecture I made the dreadful discovery of a red cap stained by dirt and fallen masonry staring back at me.

Whether you will ever receive this letter is uncertain, my dearest friend, but, as I write, the stench of damp earth and decay once again offends the air and I find myself consumed by the blackest fear that this wretched creature who so haunts my dreams and waking hours will return once more to ultimately reclaim what it has lost to me.