The Moon Makes People Crazy

The Moon Makes People Crazy

I sit beneath the capital in Southwark station at approximately 10:15 pm. A full moon drenches the city above in glorious white while I make shapes in the underground shadows cast over the walls and floor around me. I am in a room on a bench by the most westerly tunnel at the far end of the track. The closed book in my hand is Bertrand Russell's, A History of Western Philosophy. It is a dense book and almost impossible to follow, but I enjoy being seen with it in my hand or on my table at Starbucks. The cover attracts more attention when it glistens in the moonlight, so I often read it late at Trafalgar Square or Hyde Park. However, right now, in this room, I am alone.

Through a small, scratched window opposite, I can see passengers darting back and forth as the trains pass behind them. Along with the shadows, they are my distraction. We all need a distraction, as there is a chill on the London tube of late. It is not the temperature, as it is mid-July, and the heaters are humming soundly. It is the events of the last six weeks that torment every traveling mind, from entrance-to-exit, from Oyster card in-to-Oyster card out.

Fourteen victims have been found: nine males, and five females, all torn open from chest to face. Bodies have been found all over London, but always down here somewhere. They lie in the dark, undisturbed by the rumbling of trains until somebody sees or smells them, while the world above carries on.

Did I mention the moon is full and bright tonight? I know this because I stared at it for a whole minute before entering the station ten minutes ago. There are silly rumors of werewolves due to the nature and timing of the killings, but this is not why I stare. It is true the moon is ominous, but so are many things at night in this atmosphere. A full moon is ominous, but so is a raven, a swaying oak, or the face of a ticking clock tower, and all would have captivated me before descending those steps. What sets the moon apart is the romance (no one ever said a girl looks beautiful in the sunlight), and ominous and romantic is an intriguing combination; it makes you think poetically, to the point of pretension. I open and close my book.

Others speak of the moon more plainly. They say it is making people crazy. Perhaps centuries of mythology have taken hold, or maybe too many have seen An American Werewolf in London. Either way, the wholesome prefers to associate these levels of brutality with anything but a human being. A stabbing, a shooting, or even a strangling; are all within the threshold for John or Jane Doe, but not total mutilation. People find more sense in the savagery of a werewolf or a city-bound bear than they do a lucid neighbor with a knife. And there are no bears in England. 

They talked about closing the tube until this unidentified killer is found, but life goes on like Amity Island. Just be careful and stay out of deep waters. But how does one not venture too deep on the London Underground? It is either up or down. It has been said that these rooms offer some protection. They are typically tearooms for engineers but currently function as waiting areas because the trains are more infrequent. They provide a comforting blind spot to trackside lurkers, and one can lock the door from the inside. It is also impossible to be pushed in front of a train from this room. However, for the same reasons, many find the shadowy interior unsettling and prefer the open space of the trackside.

Regardless, I sit here, and my short time with the shadows has sharpened my curiosity. I begin to people-watch. Does the mind of a killer adorn the face with tells, particularly in his chosen realm of butchery? Does he think of the moon, or does he blame it? And I keep saying "he" when as of now, there is no evidence of this. It is what everyone assumes. The mind of a woman can be as warped as a man, but the hands cannot tear a rib cage in two, knife or no knife, surely not?

The door rattles. My heart races as I am joined simultaneously in my safe room by two fellow commuters. They could not be any more different. The first is a Caucasian man in a blue pinstripe suit, minimum cost £5,000, approximately 5 foot 8, short slick black hair (Wall Street is an Atlantic Ocean away), shiny black brogues, and a newspaper in his hand. The second man, darker skinned, easily north of 6 foot tall, his pungent natural odor competes with the buckets of Issey Miyake drenching the suit of the other. He has dark green combat pants covered in pockets, a black t-shirt patterned with what looks like a rock album cover, band name: Shadows of Crystals, flip flops (it was July at ground level, I suppose), and scruffy brown hair to shoulder length.

The suited man glances at my book with a cynical smile, but he keeps his eye roll to himself. He then opens his newspaper: "I don't even like to read the news these days; it's stock market updates that keep me from completely ignoring these pages." The cockney is strong in this one, but his fruit-market lilt fails to lighten the macabre. "The train delays are killing me," he continues.

"Fourteen people," the flip-flopped man replies in a strong Russian accent. "Nine men. That is lot of power, I think. Scary power!". He looks on edge in the shoulders. He is not swaying but smoothly fidgeting like he is body popping but to no beat. The suited man and I share a glance. 

"let's not celebrate a murderer's strength, please" the suited man says.

"no, no, no, not celebrate. Just acknowledge facts, that is all. Men don't have that kind of power. I don't endorse wolf stories, but that is some strength.".

There is that word again: wolf. Wolf and moon, moon and wolf. In recent weeks, I have failed to meet someone who doesn't touch on this at least once if only to dismiss the idea. But as much as they belittle it, the idea is out there. It’s making people crazy.

"Fuck off with that wolf stuff," the suited man says. "Why does anything horrific have to be shrouded in mystery? Whenever they figure these things out, the reality is always banal. Horrific, yes, but still banal."

"But you notice the moon, sir?" the flip-flopped man replies. "Wolf or not, we all know the dates of the killings."

"Even that is debatable.", the suited man snaps. “They have found bodies all over the tube at different times of the month. The moon theory is speculation".

I have questioned this theory myself. The investigations have linked the timings to the full moon, so the media ran with it. But our suited friend is correct. They found bodies that were estimated to be up to a fortnight dead, down the tunnels, behind wall panels. And they were given estimated times of death spanning several days. But the full moon theory was too alluring. It’s making people crazy.

The flip-flopped man continues: "But what about full moon in Scotland? Always a full moon somewhere…. Maybe he, or it…dragged the body here."

"That's not how it works," the suited man interrupts. "I'm not gonna give you an astronomy lesson on the London Underground, but it's the same everywhere in the world on any particular date."

The flip-flopped man calms and sits back. I suspect he was happy to avoid the astronomy lesson. Where is the fun in that? Why reduce the moon to a ball of rock? But that ball of rock that orbits this ball of rock roughly once a month has attracted much mysticism. From moon gods to werewolves, from collective menstrual synching to the man in the moon himself. And I hear it is made of cheese…You would think that planting a flag in it would make it no more mystical than Australia, but I hear some even think that didn’t happen. Maybe our flip-flopped friend is one of those people. He looks deep in thought and his clothing shakes as he body-pops some more. The moon is making people crazy.

I look at the many pockets on his pants. Most are six inches long, like any regular pocket in a pair of jeans; two tiny ones, one on each leg, used for God knows what; and finally, on the right outer region, a long pocket measuring approximately 14 inches along the thigh. Why am I even looking at this? Because he talks about the moon? But doesn’t everyone? It is true, it is common ground and people can make of it what they want. It may not turn everyone into a werewolf, but it can turn anyone into killer once the ball is rolling. If only to feel involved.

The suited man notices me looking at the pockets but avoids the subject. "I just want to keep my head down until this maniac is caught. Rake in the money by day, blow job off the girl by night; I don't want to spoil that by talking about maybe getting murdered on my commute, especially because of a celestial body."

The door opens again and slender girl with shoulder-length blonde hair stands there. She is wearing a black t-shirt printed with a full moon shining from behind a mountain range. She is beautiful and she is smiling. The suited man also smiles. “Nice t-shirt darling, take a seat.”. The moon must be romantic.

“So, she can joke about the moon, you fucking sycophant?”, the flip-flopped man says.

Her smiles fades. Is she wearing the shirt as a joke? Or out of reverence? Or is it a coincidence? The moon is making us crazy. She looks down as if seeing the shirt for the first time, before she backs out of the room and closes the door.

“There’s a shock. You scared her off”, the suited man says. “She was cute.” He looks at me again with an expression of "Why the fuck are we even dealing with this right now?"

“Ok, ok, no more moon talk”, the flip-flopped man offers in peace. Edging six inches along the bench closer to the suited man, he apologizes: "Sorry sir, I guess I think out loud sometimes. These times are scary for everyone, I know. Hey….." he pinches the man's suit between his fingers and thumb, rubbing softly "….this is gorgeous material. I have a guy who can get gear like this for next to no money. No fakes either…."

"So why are you dressed like that" the suited man interrupts, pulling his arm away. “And what is in those pockets?” His anxiety is rising and we share another glance. He looks over his shoulder through the window into the station. The trackside is much emptier now.

"Because I am a fucking chef”, the flip-flopped man says curtly. "I don't need your fucking suit to chop vegetables in a kitchen, do I?". I look at the suited man, as he tries to keep his cool, but he fails. He stands over the flip-flopped man: "Look, dude, I know you think you are being friendly right now, but I think we would all be a bit more relaxed if we could just sit in silence."

The flip-flopped man looks to me for support. "What do you think Socrates?". My book is closed, but I remain silent. This tension will dissipate. "Ah fuck this," he says. He raises his hands to me in a claw-like pose and growls. I reopen my book and pretend to read.

"That's not funny," the suited man says to him.

The flip-flopped man stands: "I only came down here out of curiosity, full moon and everything. I can get a bus for less". He leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. The suited man remains standing. He then walks over to the door, locks it, returns, and sits back down. He growls, then laughs—my heart races.

"He was really ruining my day," the suited man says, grinning and shaking his head. "Were you thinking what I was thinking? You see those pockets? Talking like that down here and growling! He deserves to get tasered."

I remain silent.

He continues to stare at me, breathing heavily from the recent intensity. He picks up the newspaper again but looks at my book. "Who are you anyway, some kind of Buddhist? Some kind of stoic? Why so quiet?”

I put my book to one side.

He begins to stare at me with a curiosity I can almost taste. It is a look that dissolves into sheer terror when he sees me take the knife from the inside of my jacket. 

The last thing I remember from the room is his dangling jaw, mangled suit and lungs, and the shadowy blood-sprayed walls. As I leave the station, I look up at the moon. They say it is making people crazy, but I think it is beautiful.