Heart and Soul
by Craig Wallwork

I make no bones about it. The queue found me, and not the other way around.

From the sparrow snared by bunting; the flies feeding on a bloodied vagrant; a child screaming; the sickening stench of hot asphalt – the world that morning cleaved to my every part, turning my stomach and heart. I lowered my eyes. Another corner, another road. Then I found skin, pallid and wrinkled, dredged from a riverbed. Fine hair glistened above a scraggy nape. Liver spots festooned a weathered crown. I staggered my steps, catching his heel in the last. The old man turned. Eyes the color of onyx, pitiless and cadaverous. What’s all this about, he cried. I offered my apologies, a hand. But the old man turned his back. I rose on tiptoes. In front of him, a thousand people stood facing the head of the person in front. I tapped his shoulder and asked, What are we queuing for? He removed from the inside of a thread-worn blazer a human heart, its flesh sallow and diseased. He raised it to his face. At the heart’s centre was a hole, perfectly placed so I could see one black eye staring back. Above us, a rook perched itself on a phone line, squawked once, and flew off. A breeze pushed an ironmonger’s sign; the hinges rusted so the sound was like that of a bow about to snap. I asked him where he got the heart. The old man’s head gathered in pleats. Had it all my life, he said. All my life. Then we shuffled one step forward. And her, I asked. She was balanced on tiny heels, the seams of a cheap floral dress struggling to hold in her water butt frame. The old man tapped her shoulder. The sun fell behind her head as she turned, illuminating the tips of her hair cinder yellow. They whispered. She reached into her handbag, pulled out an oversized heart, patches of yellow fungus clinging to its flesh like barnacles to a boat’s stern. In the distance, a siren bounced off cyanotic buildings. Traffic lights turned from red to amber, then to green. Green, amber, red. Listen, she said, pushing the heart toward me. I turned my ear, my body tilting, all weight falling to the right foot. A low but audible noise rose from an artery. The woman withdrew her hand, placed the heart back in the handbag. Murmur, she said. And we shuffled one step forward.

The white sun turned Halloween orange. Night gathered its army and overthrew Day. Day rose stronger and brighter twelve hours later and regained its position. Their battles raged for a hundred dusks, turning the sun cold, its presence, short-lived. Leaves jumped from trees, angry winds throwing them skyward. And we all shuffled one step forward. For over a thousand days, I wished for the end. And then it came.

Victorian windows smeared with grime and dust. A low square door, the stone lintel faded and crumbling. All who entered never came out. I turned the handle; a small bell rang over my head. Inside, shadows huddled in the corners of the room. The air turned damp, forcing you to breathe from your mouth. You could taste death. A voice called out, my attention drawn to a small wooden table lit by a single lamp. Come closer, said the voice. Sitting at the table was an Indian boy with grey hair, skin marked with a thousand tiny scars, teeth hollow as deadwood. He spoke as if a hand was pressing against his throat. Name, asked the boy. Richard Marler, I replied. He opened a large book, ran a bony finger against its page and then told me to sit. Two Mason jars were to his left, the first labelled with the word, Saint. The next, Sinner. He produced a pair of golden scales from under the table and placed them in front of me. Your heart, he said and then pointed to my chest. I looked beyond him and saw two doors. Both were identical, varnish blistered and peeling. He repeated, Your heart. I told him there’d been a mistake. He checked the book and said, No mistake. Richard Marler. 145 Orchard Crescent. 43 years of age. Divorced. Heart, please. I said, I can’t give you my heart. I’m still using it! He told me to check the inside of my coat pocket. I did, to prove to him nothing was there. I brought my hand into the failing light. There it was: prune-like, its flesh black as silt. A tar-like liquid oozed from the open arteries.

Place it on the scales, said the boy. Against the gold dish, it looked hideous, unworldly, an alien fetus on a bed of straw. The boy unscrewed the lid from the first Mason jar. He placed a perfect heart, pink with wonderful blue veins traversing its body, in the opposite dish. The scales tilted. The Saint heart, too light. He replaced it back in the Mason jar and unscrewed the next. The Sinner heart was blue, shrivelled. In comparison, my heart was much larger, yet weighed together, the scales evened out. The boy scribbled in the book with a quill. He then said, Enter the door to your right. I asked him what he was going to do with my heart. He refused to answer. The chair grated as I pushed away. My hand fell to the door handle, hesitated and then opened it. Beyond was a room, small enough for two people. Inside sat a bellboy on a stool. Muzak played from small wall mounted speakers. Show tunes. He motioned me in. The door closed. He shouted, Going down, and then pressed the only button on the panel. I asked him where down was, and he scratched his crotch. Numbers from 999 counted down above the door. Wheels squealed above. Taught iron cables twanged and groaned. I undid my tie, pulled my shirt collar out. The bellboy turned and said, Warm? Roasting, I replied. Get used to it, he said. Get used to it.