The Theatre's Darkness

[CW - Coercive control, trauma, violence]

“Are they ever going to turn the lights back on?” asked Kathy with a quiver. 

“No. Not for a couple of years,” replied Alan. 

Kathy shifted in the luxurious seat. She thought about how, during different times, the rich and famous occupied each chair, observing the rapid advances in modern cinema. They saw the silent films of Chaplin give way to movies with chattering actors who spoke as if they were in the room with you. She had even heard rumours of films recorded in colour, just like real life, although she had not seen them for herself.

Ever since the Luftwaffe bombs had started to fall on London, the cinema had been closed. Packing hundreds of people neatly into one space like matches in a box was rightfully band, lest someone ignite the packaging. More callously, those in charge considered cinema buildings to be sacrosanct, part of a new age to be displayed to the world. If the Germans knew that no one was in there, they would likely keep them preserved. After all, the Reich’s propaganda minister was a fan of cinema himself and would undoubtedly want to stage his own productions in London’s establishments.

Each time the bombardments came, which was almost every night at this stage, Alan would drag Kathy to the same cinema. It had been locked for weeks now, but, as the manager of the property, Alan always had a key. Together, alone, they sat in the darkness and clung to each other’s hands until the deep rumbling stopped. 

“I don’t understand why the lights need to be off anyway. It’s a cinema. There aren’t any windows. We aren’t going to give anything away.” Kathy spoke with almost an indignance in her voice.

Alan dismissed her entitlement, “They’re not even supplying electricity to the building. If they were, I’d switch them on for you. As long as we are safe, that’s the main thing.” 

Kathy was impatient, as she always was. She found it hard to comprehend why all this inconvenience was necessary. Death, or the prospect of it, was not an issue for her. The disrupted life was much worse. 

“I don’t understand why we can’t go to the bomb shelter with everyone else. It must be safer there. There will be people to talk to. People to see.” 

Alan squeezed her hand tightly, perhaps a little too tightly, “That’s what I’m afraid of. You know why we can’t go there. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it.” 

Kathy slumped into the soft fabric, trying to make herself disappear. She knew precisely why they were in the cinema and away from everyone else. She knew why they had to avoid the safety of the underground station. 

Alan had joined up as soon as the war started, under pressure from Kathy. 

“Don’t be a coward,” she had told him. “Go and fight for your country.” 

Not really a bloodthirsty man, Alan would not have joined in a military capacity unless under duress from Kathy. Inside his own mind, he had a suspicion that Kathy was too good for him. More than that, he suspected that she was aware of this fact. As their relationship grew, as did his desire to impress her, to keep her around. The more meaningful the relationship, the greater the cost of losing it. If she wanted him to go to war, then it was worth the price. 

Alan came home having already taken the shilling, knowing that he would be shipped off to some field in France or Belgium, just as his father and uncles had been a few years before. Out of his dad and three brothers, only his dad came home alive. His walking stick and half a hand were the visible remains of that war and the horror that he had endured. Alan, seeing his father’s mutilation whilst he was growing up, as well as the mental disintegration of the stoic man had always sworn to avoid such a conflict. 

But now, the conflict was here. He was signed up to fight. You never know how you are going to react until it happens to you. If, Alan thought, he was going off to fight in the name of a woman, then he would at least demand a price. The price for risking his life was marriage. 

Having taken the shilling, he arrived home and dropped his knee to the ground, producing a ring that had belonged to his grandmother. “I don’t want to die an unmarried man,” he explained. 

Not reluctantly, but certainly not enthusiastically, Kathy accepted. It was inevitable that they would marry eventually but not now. There was still so much life to live in their courtship. Yet, in the circumstances, with death perhaps facing them both, accelerating the relationship was necessary. 

“Of course, I’ll marry you,” she had said with an empty smile on her face. 

The ceremony was hastily arranged. There was no honeymoon. There was barely even a notice in the newspaper. It did not really matter. The couple were promised to one another, and that was all that mattered. 

A few days later, Alan was dressed as Tommy Atkins as he dug trenches in the dirt near Arras, France. All Quiet On The Western Front, he thought as the sun beat down on the tranquil countryside. He did not know what was just a few hours away. 

Alan swore to himself that he would never tell anyone what he saw. The swarm of grey uniforms, horse-drawn cannons, howling Stukas and the thud of artillery. 

Unlike his father, there was no months-long war. There was just a single rout, a disorganised retreat. From the first bullet whizzing past his temple, he trembled with fear. Sat on the beach at Dunkirk, he shook and begged to be taken back home. He was not meant to be here. 

Against all reasonable expectations, Alan did get home. He had been so sure that he was going to die on that beach. As the Stukas dived, he had thought about Kathy. He was there because of her. When the bombs were falling, he saw the folly of it all. No person was worth this. 

Alan was allowed leave while the forces recuperated. After all, he had left all his equipment on the beach. Until it was replaced, there was no use in him reporting for duty each day. The day he returned home, he wanted nothing more than to hug Kathy. Maybe he would even cry into the nook between her neck and shoulder for a few hours, on the proviso that she never mentioned it to anybody. 

His eyes were stinging from the salt as he opened the door to their terraced London house. There, in almost identical place he had left her a few weeks earlier, sat Kathy on a chair. It might have almost been exactly the same scene as when he departed but for one significant difference. Harry, the local warden, placed on a chair next to her, with his hand on her thigh. 

In a different time, just a number of days previous, Alan would have resolved this situation with violence. Harry would have been grazing his face on the gravel outside. Now, though, Alan had no appetite for violence. Simply, he asked Harry to leave and never return. Harry, delighted to escape a beating, departed obediently. 

That was when the tears began to flow. Contrary to Alan’s expectations, they were not his own. They were Kathy’s. She begged and pleaded for forgiveness. She said she would do anything. In the society they lived in, an unfaithful or divorced woman was hardly a human being at all. Men received no such condemnation. Kathy, obsessed with her social standing, desperately needed to stay with Alan. 

“I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. I just needed someone to care for me. I’ve heard such stories of what was happening out there. You have to understand, I wasn’t thinking straight.” This was her reasoning. 

Alan’s nature had been corrupted by what he had seen in France. The little faith he had in the world to be kind to him had been obliterated by Kathy in that moment that he returned. The world to him now was nothing but killing, suffering and betrayal.

“What will it take for you to forgive me?” 

This question unsettled Alan. How could he forgive her? How could he make allowances for anything in this brutal world? He saw that Kathy’s only desire was to maintain her social status. She wanted safety and security. She wanted to be looked after in a time of upheaval and to continue life as normally as possible. There was no reason why Alan should not give that to her. But then, why should he suffer the consequences of that? Harry was a well-known figure in the community. He was the local air-raid warden and in charge of the safety of hundreds. People must have known what was going on. 

“You don’t have my forgiveness,” Alan had said to her, explaining his thoughts. “I will look after you. I will do what I can to help you survive the war. I won’t leave you or divorce you. No one at the local church or the pub or in your family will know what you’ve done. But, we can’t engage with Harry. You can’t ever see him again. I shouldn’t have to put up with the feelings of jealousy and betrayal, particularly when the only reason they happened was that I was off in a world of carnage at your request. You can keep your life and your safety, but from now on, you have to do what I say.” 

He was offering a pseudo-forgiveness in return for security. She was to hand over the control of her life to a man who would never forgive her in return for the outward appearance of normality. It was an agreement that suited nobody. Alan knew that he was taking away Kathy’s freedoms, putting her under coercion. He no longer cared about that. He did not care about anything. His affection for her remained, but his good nature had been demolished. 

Months later, after some time of recovery, the pair lived a settled life. They cared for each other but were distant. Kathy was loyal to Alan, and Alan took extensive measures to care for Kathy. But something was gone that could never be replaced. They still cuddled one another each night, but the embrace was a cold one. 

When the Luftwaffe turned its attention to London, Alan ensured Kathy was safe. He arranged for them to hide in the cinema. Of course, they could have gone to the London Underground station, but the warden would be there, shepherding the temporary refugees. Kathy risked her life every day but did not enter the shelter in order to fulfil her deal with Alan. She signed away her life for social credit. Alan, brutalised by his experiences, cared little. He was doing what he said he would do and was getting what he asked for in return. A once passionate relationship had become nothing more than a transaction. 

Harry adjusted his helmet, a metallic grey with a white W neatly printed on it. It was daylight now. Another sleepless night had gone by. The daytime would be equally wakeful. In the darkness, people needed help avoiding death. During the day, the destruction from the night before needed to be addressed. Perhaps, in the early evening, he would get a few hours of sleep. 

He clambered through the rubble, which was loose and gave way to his boots. The pieces of rock would have sliced his ankles if they were not protected by rubber. The bombs had hit hard last night. It would be a day of extensive recovery. Businesses, homes and lives were lost. 

Most buildings were abandoned. Still, each needed to be searched for signs of life. Or death. Harry made his way through the crumbling structure. The remains of the outside walls and grand ceiling blocked out the sun. He flicked on his torch, illuminating the cinema for the first time in weeks, just as Kathy had requested. 

Kathy’s face, perfectly still and eyes glistening in the artificial light looked back at him with an eery tranquillity. Despite its coating with dust, Harry recognised it instantly. Recognising it gave him a pang of romantic feeling, which he quickly got under his control. 

Ignoring Kathy for a second, he called out. “Is anybody in here alive?” 

There was no response.