The Church of John Coltrane by Chad Taylor

Author:Chad Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781005551667
Publisher: Chad Taylor
Published: 2020-12-30T00:00:00+00:00

28

Because of its orientation a chill settled in on the General Building in the early hours of the afternoon and the sun’s position in winter cast a shadow in the central light well, flooding the corridors with an uneven, amber gloom. The layout was the same on every floor, the same squared balcony branching into corridors disappearing into darkness; but the uneven condition of the windows in the stained wood doors projected varying illuminations across the floor. Doors with blacked out or boarded windows became completely dark; a broken mail slot shone like an electric eye.

My footsteps seemed more muffled than usual. Even the noise of the key in the lock was swallowed up. All movement disappeared in the building at this time. At night it was clear and still, but in the afternoon it was like stepping into deep water.

I dropped my keys on the table but didn’t sit down. I thought about playing some music, but music wasn’t enough. The room was cold, even in the sun, and the shelves had collected fresh dust. I didn’t want to be inside. I picked up the keys and walked out.

I turned left out of the building and walked along the street for half a mile to the old railway terminal. The abandoned platforms were tide marked with silver and purple foam. Aerosol waves lapped the base of the pillars that had once supported the platform roof but now propped up only sky. The iron awnings had all been removed, either for scrap or by vandals.

The decommissioned train carriages were parked on a siding further along. The new station was clever enough but I liked the architecture of the old station, even in this dilapidated state. I could remember riding the trains as a schoolboy, standing on the platform in the late winter evenings. The station seemed sprawling and complex then. Now, it was just small and sad. All the structures here would be removed, eventually, and the wash of graffiti that covered them was the first step of their erosion. I stepped around the scorch mark where itinerants had built a fire and thought about the blaze in the General Building. Maybe some of the vagrants had broken in and started it by accident.

Further along the rusted tracks the grey metal ground cover had sprouted yellow grass. The old passenger carriages were parked on the siding, their windows broken or painted over, their undercarriage so caked with dust and corrosion that the machinery looked organic. I walking alongside them when I saw a worker hunched in front of a jigger on the side line. He was kneeling in a difficult position to tape a grid of red adhesive tape across the front of the machine, which was painted orange and appeared to be functional. Each time he laid down a strip of tape he would get up and step back to examine it. Although the grid was regular he appeared to be measuring it by eye.

‘How long before she’s back in service?’ I said.

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